


Tripping Over the Blue Line

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Tripping Over the Blue Line [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 373,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It's a transition. That's what Emma's calling it. She's transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she's definitely not worried. Nope. She's fine. Really. She's promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She's fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She's got a job to do. And she doesn't care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.He's done. One more season and he's a free agent and he's out. It's win or nothing for Killian. He's going to win a Stanley Cup and then he's going to stop being the face of the franchise and he's going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won't be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That's the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn't going to change that. At all.They are both horrible liars.





	1. Chapter 1

It was cold.

Freezing cold.

Fucking freezing cold.

She should be used to it by now.

She wasn’t.

She was freezing – _fucking_ _freezing_ – goosebumps running up and down her arm and it was August for God’s sake, it shouldn’t be this cold. And she probably should have worn a jacket. Because she should be used to it by now.

“Emma?”  
  
She jumped at the sound of her own name, nearly snapping her neck in the process and turned to find a smile and a pair of slightly amused eyes and arms crossed tightly over a bright red dress. Ruby was wearing a jacket.

“How come you’re wearing short sleeves?” Ruby asked, taking a step into the office and the smile on her face didn’t waver as she navigated the slightly jam-packed floor, large piles of paperwork and plans and the physical embodiment of media relations stacked seemingly everywhere.

Emma rolled her eyes and ran her hands up and down her still goosebump-covered arms. She should have worn a jacket.

“Is it always this cold in here?” she asked, sinking into the one open chair in front of Ruby’s desk when the woman nodded towards it. The other chair was holding several boxes and the three chairs in the far corner – pressed up flat against the wall so they weren’t in the slightly more appropriate semicircle around the table – were barely distinguishable from the several dozen jerseys draped over them.

Emma narrowed her eyes, trying to make out names and numbers, but they were all piled face up, the diagonal letters across the front practically screaming at her and she could still feel Ruby’s smile and vaguely excited gaze on the back of her head.

She’d been back in the city for less than twenty-four hours, bags left haphazardly in the corner of Mary Margaret and David’s loft uptown, before her phone rang and Ruby demanded her presence at her office. Emma tapped her fingers on her knee the entire time she was on the downtown one, a nervous energy rushing through her veins and a distinct lack of a jacket on her arms.

She shouldn’t have been nervous.

Or cold.

She’d done this before.

She just hadn’t done it in New York. Or working with her friend. Or crashing on her other friend’s couch without so much as any idea when she’d be able to sleep anywhere else.

Emma Swan was in the midst of what most people would call the _transitional_ period of her life, or what she would call the _transitional_ period of her life, because that made it all seem less concrete and a bit less terrifying and if she kept using that word it at least sounded as if she had a bit of control.

She didn’t.

She just refused to admit that.

Emma’s eyes didn’t leave the jerseys, tracing over patches and the one on top of a pile that had a ‘C’ emblazoned over its left shoulder. Her mouth twisted at the letter and what it meant and she must have sighed louder than she wanted to if Ruby’s  _tutting_ behind her was any indication.

“You’re going to do great,” Ruby promised and it wasn’t as if Emma hadn’t heard this before. She had.

At least a dozen times – and at least six of those times came from Mary Margaret in the few hours Emma had seen her before practically sprinting towards the subway and Madison Square Garden.

She was going to be fine.

It was just a transition.

She’d been to New York before. She’d been to the Garden before – had spent time in Ruby’s office last season when the Kings made their East Coast swing and Emma had figured out a way to get herself on the trip when front office brass was feeling particularly charitable. She’d even camped out on Mary Margaret’s couch then as well.

This was all normal.

Or it would have been normal if Emma hadn’t left Los Angeles in a bit of a professional huff, the restructuring of the public relations department leaving her decidedly on the outside looking in and without a job that matched up with the description on her business card.

It happened just after the end of last season, the loss in the Western Conference finals still stinging just a bit, even if Emma had never actually put a jersey on herself, and she’d been called into Isaac’s office two days later.

It had been quick – muttered apologies that didn’t really ring true and promises that she’d _land on her feet_ and they’d provide her with all the references she could ever want. They hadn’t. They’d told her someone new had bought the team and wanted to bring in his own slate of people and the PR department was getting overhauled first and there _wasn’t a place for her_ anymore.

She’d wallowed for a few days, called Mary Margaret on the other side of the country and complained about the entire city of Los Angeles and the smog and the horrible traffic, as if any of that had to do with the restructuring of its hockey team’s front office. Mary Margaret, to her credit, had listened to it all, agreeing when she was supposed to and gasping when she had to and even offered to fly out and make sure Emma actually ate real food at some point and stopped ordering from the Chinese restaurant around the block.

That’s what had woken her up.

Because if Mary Margaret could do that, if Mary Margaret could still find it in herself to _believe_ in her, then the least Emma could do was believe in herself.

So she swallowed her pride and called Ruby.

And it hadn’t been nearly as hard as Emma was certain it should have been. Ruby had heard about the sale – even knew a bit about this Gold guy who reportedly bought the team and brought in his own PR staff – and she didn’t even try to mask her groan when Emma detailed the story, muttering something about _asshole men_ underneath her breath.

It was enough to almost make Emma laugh.

Almost.

Her rent was very late.

“You’re going to come here,” Ruby said during that first conversation, as if that decided _that_ and Emma found she believed her much quicker than she thought possible.

That was a little over two months ago and Ruby wouldn’t take no for an answer and Mary Margaret screamed so loud when Emma told her, that she was positive her eardrums wouldn’t ever entirely recover. They’d all come to JFK to pick her up, signs in their hands and smiles on their faces and it was...a lot.

Emma wasn’t used to a lot. She was used to being on the other side of the country and falling asleep in an otherwise silent apartment by herself and, God, New York City was _loud_ and crowded and people walked _everywhere_ and the subway still smelled like garbage. She tried to take a deep breath, lungs suddenly a bit too tight and vision swimming just a little in front of her and the letters on the jersey all started to blur together.

Ruby, for her part, hadn’t seemed to notice, still listing off all the reasons Emma was going to be fine and great and _spectacular_ and she really should have worn a jacket because it was still freezing in there, the goosebumps making their way up her neck now.

She blinked once – in through her nose, out through her mouth – and the jersey got a bit clearer again, all blue and white and red. She was breathing easier, but Emma’s pulse picked up when her gaze traced over the letters again – _RANGERS_ somehow finding their way into her very center and it felt a bit more meaningful.

She was doing this.

And maybe it wasn’t quite as transitional as she thought, a brand-new business card pushed against her palm and Ruby was grinning at her when she finally pulled her eyes away from the jersey.

“What is this?” Emma asked, already knowing the answer.

Ruby quirked one eyebrow at her and the grin got wider. “Mary Margaret didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Emma shook her head, eyes falling to the thin piece of cardstock gripped tightly in her fingers, hand trembling just a bit. “She didn’t really get a chance though. I mean, I woke up and I had to get down here and she had to get to work.”

It was still August, but it was close enough to the school year that Mary Margaret was getting restless about the state of her classroom and the positioning of desks and memorizing the names of every kid in her class before they even stepped in the room. Emma had woken up that morning, doing her best to keep the grumbling to the minimum when David handed her a mug of coffee, and she just hummed in response to the quick apology and explanation and _sorry for just leaving before your huge interview._

She’d tried to explain it wasn’t an interview – the job had been, more or less, promised before she left Los Angeles – but Mary Margaret was already a whirl of teacher-like responsibility and David was close on her heels, loaded down with a tower of supplies that he could barely hold onto and Emma had given up fairly quickly.

Ruby clicked her tongue again and made a face. Emma got the distinct impression that she was missing something.

That kept happening. She was half certain she’d stumbled into this job while tripping over her own feet, infringing on _something_ she wasn’t quite able to put a name to.

It was probably just nerves.

Or a string of letdowns and a distinct lack of self-confidence that Emma had spent the better part of her life ignoring.

Either one.

It didn’t really matter, she was still barrelling into everyone’s life.

Mary Margaret Blanchard – soon to be Mary Margaret Blanchard-Nolan – had been Emma’s first and best friend when they’d met at freshman orientation, a seemingly mutual nervousness regarding the next four years of their lives, somehow, binding them together quicker and tighter than anything.

Mary Margaret, despite her never-ending smile or inability to think of anyone as anything less than the absolute best, had just as much of a muddled past as Emma did – mother dying young and no siblings and there was a distinct air around her that Emma immediately recognized as soon as she looked her direction.

Disappointment.

It was disappointment.

And Emma understood it, years spent in the foster system and seven different families by the time she was eighteen, had robbed her of just about any of her belief in anything. She’d somehow gotten a scholarship out of the high school she eventually graduated from – a tiny building in Minnesota that she had to actually try to remember the name of – and the government seemed more than willing to loan her the rest of the money to try and make her some sort of productive member of society.

She’d only just finished paying off the loans when she’d gotten fired and there was something to that – Mary Margaret would have called it kismet or something equally as adorable – but Emma just figured it was repayment for the rest of the crap the universe seemed determined to throw her way whenever things were going relatively ok.

Mary Margaret had stood by her side for more than just those four years of college, had done more than share a dorm room with her or even hold her hair back more than she probably should have. She’d somehow become the most important person in Emma’s life – the one thing Emma felt like she could actually count on and that’s why she’d called her after the meeting in Issac’s office.

Even if it took a few days to get to that point.

Emma was painfully self-sufficient and while Mary Margaret had wormed her way into her life and her metaphorical wiring, there was still a deep, dark part of her that resented having to depend on anyone, like it was some sort of weakness she couldn’t quite afford.

Mary Margaret seemed determined to break it down, even now, nearly a decade after they flipped the tassels on their caps and stopped sharing a dorm room together.

And that determination had led Emma onto the downtown one train to Madison Square Garden that morning, because somewhere in between meeting Mary Margaret and falling asleep on her couch the night before, she’d also managed to pick up two other people who seemed focused solely on making sure this _transition_ went as smoothly as possible.

David Nolan was the epitome of all things good and pure and charming and sometimes he made Emma want to roll her eyes, but that was mostly because he was so goddamn _nice_ she was almost positive he couldn’t actually be real.

He and Mary Margaret had started dating sophomore year of college and it almost made Emma believe true love actually existed.

Almost.

More than almost.

They’d gotten engaged during the first round of the playoffs last season – and something in the back of her mind almost audibly groaned that she documented time that way – and Emma was maid of honor and she wasn’t nearly as upset about the dress she’d have to wear as she pretended to be.

David had flat out refused to let her stay in a hotel when she got to New York, staring at her as if she suggested eating at a chain restaurant in the middle of Times Square. “Are you insane?” he’d asked and Emma tried not to be offended by that. “You’re staying here.”  
  
And then he’d tugged her close to him and wrapped his hand around the back of her head like he was protecting her or something equally ridiculous and every argument Emma could come up with seemed to evaporate on the tip of her tongue.

Ruby, meanwhile, hadn’t shown up until after Emma graduated and Mary Margaret and David had moved to New York and they’d all been introduced when she’d come back to the city during the All-Star break six years before.

Ruby Lucas was, for all intents and purposes, a force to be reckoned with and Emma was nothing short of consistently impressed with her determination and her knowledge and her absolute refusal to take shit from anyone – particularly the front office of the New York Rangers.

Emma wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if Ruby had just informed management that she was giving her a job, not even allowing them to question the decision or give anyone else a moment to debate the possibility that this all felt a little less-than-by-the-book.

Ruby’d known Mary Margaret for years – grown up together in some sleepy little Maine town that, reportedly, always smelled like the ocean – and she’d fallen into her role with the Rangers through a series of events that Emma still didn’t understand. There was something about a public relations degree and proving someone wrong and learning the entire rulebook on her own as part of a dare.

And now she was the director of media relations and knew more about sports than, likely, anyone on the entire roster.

Emma was almost always in awe of Ruby Lucas.

So it shouldn’t have entirely surprised her that these three people – who she, suddenly realized, counted as the only people who really _mattered_ – had conspired to pick her up off her sorry-for-herself ass and haul her across the country and get her a job and a brand-new business card.

It shouldn’t have.

But it did.  
  
Because, much like forgetting to wear a coat when going to an arena filled with ice, Emma still couldn't quite believe that people cared about her.

Old habits and whatnot.

“Ok, so, it’s slightly different than you’re used to,” Ruby continued, seemingly unaware of the short trip down memory lane Emma had taken in that somehow freezing office. She tapped on the card Emma was still holding, lips pressed together tightly.

Emma glanced down and these letters, unlike the ones on the jersey, made her gasp audibly and the business card didn’t say what she expected.

It should have said public relations coordinator or something with communications in the title and it didn’t say either of those things.

It said Community Relations, Fan Experiences & Events.

“What is this?” Emma asked, not taking her eyes off the card as if she stared at it more intently, the letters would somehow shift around into a string of words she could understand.

Ruby scrunched her nose and huffed slightly, sliding down a bit in her chair until her hair fanned out over the back of it. “See, that’s why Mary Margaret should have warned you.”  
  
“I needed to be warned?”  
  
She shrugged. “You tell me.”  
  
“I don’t understand what’s going on. I thought I was going to work for you.”  
  
“You want to work _for_ me?” Ruby asked skeptically, eyebrow raised and Emma rolled her eyes again. She didn’t. She didn’t, strictly speaking, want to work for anyone, had been in charge of the entire office when she’d been in LA, but that was months ago and she needed a job and she wasn’t entirely convinced she was qualified to do anything outside a hockey arena.

“No,” Emma mumbled and Ruby laughed knowingly, sitting up a little bit straighter. “I still don’t understand what this is, though. What does community relations even mean?”  
  
“Don’t forget fan experiences and events.”  
  
“Rubes,” she sighed, putting the card back on one of the few open spaces of desk in front of her. She tapped pointedly on the slightly raised lettering and waited for an answer.

“It means,” Ruby said slowly, “that I don’t have any room in my department.”  
  
“Then what am I doing here?”

Emma crossed her arms tightly, steeling herself for the argument and, this time, Ruby rolled her eyes, the weight of her sigh making her shoulders shake slightly. “It’s not like that,” she promised, as if she already knew what Emma was going to object to.

She probably did – something about charity cases and not being one and it wasn’t entirely true either because Emma didn’t actually have anywhere to go that wasn’t Mary Margaret’s couch.

“It’s not,” Ruby continued. “You’re absurdly qualified for this. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Even I’m not impressive enough to get you here without any arguments from up above.”

Emma considered that for a moment, lips twisted in thought and, possibly, a bit in acquiesce and, well, she really needed a job and she was happy to see Mary Margaret again and there was something to be said for working in New York and working for an original six.

It was like reaching some sort of hockey-related, public-relations zenith.

Or community relations.

Whatever that meant.

“I still don’t know what any of those words actually mean,” Emma pointed out, tapping the business card again, but her voice lacked a little bit of the bite she’d been expecting, the accusations falling to the wayside as soon as she met Ruby’s gaze.

Ruby grinned at her – wide and more meaningful than she looked when she first walked into the office. A victory. “It means,” she said, “that you are in charge of your own department, but you’re not going to be dealing with media or press releases or even post-game.”  
  
“What else is there?”  
  
“What does the card say?”  
  
“Community relations.”  
  
“Exactly,” Ruby nodded. “Exactly that. The team is huge on that, mostly because of everything the Garden does, but I mean, they call the fandom _Rangerstown_. People care and they want to meet players and go to events and spend money on jerseys and that’s all you now, Em. You kind of bridge the gap between team and fan. And you don’t have to deal with reporters or media requests.”  
  
Emma tugged on the end of her hair and Ruby’s smile, somehow, seemed to get even bigger and more triumphant and she knew she was a lost cause. And Ruby had absolutely played her – because there was no way she could turn this down, could walk away from an opportunity to prove just how important teams were and people were and that wasn’t fair at all.

Emma Swan had found her home in this stupid sport with ice and skates and none of it made much sense, but David had showed her one game when they were nineteen and she was, as they say, hooked.

He was going to be insufferable about this.

“Ok,” Emma muttered, eyes ducked towards her feet and she could _hear_ the look on Ruby’s face.

“I know it,” Ruby said.

“Ha ha ha, good for you. So, Reese’s wasn’t really wrong, it was kind of an interview.”  
  
Ruby made a face, pushing the card back towards Emma who took it without a word, holding it tightly in between her fingers. “I have never understood that nickname,” she said. “It doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“It does,” Emma said and for what felt like the first time in months, she actually took a deep breath, the smile on her face genuine and there were _butterflies_ in her stomach. “You’ve just got to think about it. Mary Margaret, M &Ms, Reese’s Pieces. Reese’s.”

She shrugged as if that was _that_ and Ruby rolled her eyes again, but the smile hadn’t fallen off her face completely. “You know she didn’t actually go to her classroom today.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nope,” she said, popping the letter on her lips for good measure.

“What did she do then? David was practically drowning in school supplies when they left this morning.”

“Oh, well, maybe they went for a little while, but that wasn’t their end location.”  
  
“You’re very frustrating when you’re lording information over me.”  
  
Ruby laughed loudly, grin taking on some sort of characteristic that almost looked _wolfish,_  and she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, we’re going to have fun working together,” she said. “I’m not lording. I’m merely setting up for the big reveal.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“The surprise party she planned for you later tonight.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hung open and she probably should have expected that too because it was _so_ Mary Margaret that she was a bit surprised it hadn’t actually taken place in Terminal C of JFK the night before, as soon as she stepped off the plane. Ruby crossed her arms lightly and her heel scrapped along the floor of her office when she pulled her feet up, that same knowing smile etched into every corner of her face.

“You telling me about this kind of takes some of the surprise out of it, doesn’t it?” Emma asked.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Ruby agreed. “But you’d freak out otherwise, so I figured it was only fair. You already got one shock today and that seemed like enough.”  
  
Emma scoffed, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to argue and Ruby knew it and Mary Margaret probably knew it too. And she wondered when she’d stumbled into this quasi family of people who were willing to plan things for her and do things for her and _know_ her and it was such a difference from the way things had gone while she was in Los Angeles that Emma was almost certain her head was actually spinning.

“You’re going to be ok?” Ruby asked, leaning forward slightly. “Because she like planned this whole thing and even David got the night off and there are people coming.”  
  
“People?”  
  
“From the team.”  
  
“Players?”  
  
Ruby shrugged. “A few. The good ones at least. Some front office too. It’s mostly so you can meet them before the promotional stuff and camp starts next week.”  
  
“That makes sense.”

It did.

It made sense and Mary Margaret had planned it and David had gotten the night off and that in and of itself was impressive, Friday nights away from the precinct seemingly impossible for Detective Nolan.

Emma, however, was Emma and years of foster homes and four seasons with the Kings and going home to an otherwise empty apartment had turned her into someone who didn’t expect much of anything when it came to meeting new people.

She had her people.

She didn’t really need any more.

She’d go anyway.

“It does,” Emma said, half convincing herself and Ruby absolutely knew that too, lips twisted into something that looked vaguely understanding. “When?”  
  
“Tonight.”  
  
“No, I know that,” Emma muttered quickly and Ruby laughed, ignoring her vibrating phone. “I mean what time tonight.”  
  
“Eight. Enough time to get you upstairs, meet Zelena, show you your office, show you the rink, get you back uptown and something good to wear.”  
  
“I have clothes.”  
  
“Have you unpacked any of them?”  
  
Emma mumbled and Ruby widened her eyes meaningfully, pushing up out of her chair and grabbing her still-vibrating phone as she went. She stuffed it into her pocket, practically towering over Emma when she stood up, and the look on her face didn’t change at all. “I knew it,” she said. And Emma expected more teasing and more laughing and she was a bit taken aback when none of it came.

“What?”  
  
“You know this is good, don’t you?” Ruby asked, only pausing to groan over the sounds her phone kept making.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?”  
  
“Don’t try and change the subject.” Emma huffed and Ruby flipped her hair off her shoulders, ponytail hitting against the back of her neck with so much authority it could hardly be real. Emma didn’t argue anymore. “We all want you here, you know, that don’t you?”  
  
“That’s a distinct work in progress.”  
  
Ruby sighed, twisting around the back of her desk and her hand landed knowingly on Emma’s shoulder where she was still sitting in the chair, something that felt like _emotions_ seemingly weighing her down. “Let’s get this out of the way right now, ok? You’re not encroaching, you’re not bothering, Mary Margaret has only talked about you coming here for the last two weeks. It’s almost getting annoying.”  
  
Emma laughed under her breath and Ruby’s gaze softened just a bit when she squeezed her shoulder. “You’re beyond qualified for this, Em. No one loves this sport as much as you do. I’m half convinced some of the guys on this team like the sport less than you do. You’re going to be good at this, absurdly good. Now, come on, Z wants to meet you. That’s what all the text messages are.”  
  
Ruby didn’t wait for a response, hardly paused long enough to let Emma jump out of the chair, glancing once more at the pile of jerseys behind her, before following her to an elevator and a schedule full of meetings and moments and more business card exchanges and maybe, if she was lucky, this wouldn’t be quite as _transitional_ as she planned.

* * *

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said and it felt a bit like a broken record, which felt a bit like an antiquated statement and there was no point in saying it again because it didn’t really seem to be making any difference.

Mary Margaret brushed her off as quickly as Emma had been able to get the words out and she knew it didn’t matter – she would have planned this even if Emma had told her she didn’t have to before she’d walked through the restaurant doors uptown and pretended to be surprised.

“You need to work on your not already knowing face,” David muttered, appearing from the crowd that had been standing around the bar, three glasses pressed together in his hands. He nodded towards them and Emma grabbed her designated drink – the wine glass making it all a bit painfully obvious it was _hers_ – and rolled her eyes.

“It’s been a long day,” Emma said, doing her best to rationalize and it wasn’t really a lie.

Ruby had, apparently, come up with a very stringent schedule that simply _had_ to be followed, the end of the world imminent if they didn’t meet everyone they had to meet in a two-hour window.

Emma had been dragged from office to office, more business cards pressed into her hands than she was aware existed in the entire world, and she couldn’t quite remember who everyone was by the time she walked out the building later that afternoon.

Ruby had done her best to keep up a running commentary – ”Zelena Ovest,” she said before they walked into the first, and biggest, office of the afternoon. “VP of business operations, came into _power_ after her mother retired and handed over the reigns to the desk and the budget.”

“Arthur Stylo, fourth-year coach, led them to a first-round playoff loss last year, which didn’t fly very well with the bigwigs upstairs, or Zelena, for that matter, but they’re giving him another chance this season before they officially throw him out.”

“Victor Whale, best athletic trainer in the league.”

He’d nodded towards them when they leaned through the open door to the gym and there were a few players in the back corner of the room, weights on shoulders and pressed above shoulders and Emma got a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes before Ruby pulled her back down the hallway, muttering about the _schedule_ and introducing her to a woman she thought was named Ariel along the way.

It had been exhausting and it didn’t end with names or job explanations or business cards, it ended in an uptown boutique with Emma trying to figure out how to breathe in an absurdly tight red dress that probably would have looked good if she hadn’t seen how much it cost.

Ruby hadn’t given her more than two seconds to worry about it – and that probably had to do with the schedule as well – muttering something about a _new job gift_ and Emma had groaned loudly when she saw a card handed to a clerk and raised eyebrows and that, stupid, wolfish grin.

“How was it, though?” Mary Margaret asked, eyeing Emma over the top of her own glass. “Did you see your office, yet?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “We ran out of time. That’s apparently part of next week’s schedule now. One overwhelming day of new job titles and introductions was enough.”  
  
“Are you complaining again?” Ruby shouted, appearing out of, seemingly nowhere.

“I wasn’t complaining at all,” Emma argued. “I was just explaining your very detailed schedule.”  
  
“Trust me, once the season starts, you’ll live by that schedule.”  
  
“I know, I’m not exactly new to this.”  
  
“Exactly,” Ruby said. “But this is going to be different from LA. I told you about Arthur and the expectations and all of that. It’s not just him, it’s team-wide.” She crooked her finger towards Emma, eyeing her meaningfully and dropped her voice when she muttered the next few words. “They’re going for the Cup.”  
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows in confusion, glancing at Mary Margaret and David who looked just as lost as she was. “Isn’t every team?” she asked. “I mean, that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”  
  
“Of course,” Ruby sighed. “But this is different. This is the Rangers and New York and some sort of ridiculous championship drought that has everyone constantly on edge. If they don’t win this year, there’s talk about gutting the entire front office.”  
  
“What?” Ruby hummed in response and it was probably better that they hadn’t gone over this in the office or as part of their very strict schedule, because Emma needed to take a very long drink of the wine in her hand.

“No one’s firing anyone now,” Ruby continued reasonably and Emma could feel Mary Margaret’s worried stare on the back of her head. “It’s just a possibility if things don’t go according to plan this season.”  
  
“And that plan is?”

“Winning the Stanley Cup.”  
  
“Ah, of course.” Ruby shrugged and Emma downed the rest of her drink in three, quick gulps, ignoring Mary Margaret’s quiet _tutt_ before handing the empty glass back to David. “Detective,” she said pointedly, “I believe my glass is empty.”  
  
“So it would seem,” he laughed and he knew better than to argue because Emma had _that_ glint in her eye and a rather pleasant buzz in the back of her mind and maybe she could actually breathe in this dress.

She just couldn’t let herself think about what might happen if she was forced out of another team, determined not to draw parallels to foster homes and families that didn’t want her anymore and it was going to be _fine._

Everything was going to be totally fine.

If she got some more wine.

Soon.

“Have you had anything to eat yet?” Mary Margaret asked as soon as David was gone, bumping Emma’s shoulder in an almost painfully familiar way.

“No, Mom, I haven’t.”  
  
“There’s food.”  
  
“I have no doubt you got me food too.”  
  
“Well, I mean, I got the other people here food too, I’m not going to just feed you and let the rest of them starve.”  
  
Emma laughed, smiling at her friend and something in the middle of her shifted, like she’d finally rotated around and landed on the right axis and it didn’t really make any sense – she was still living on a couch for God’s sake – but it felt a bit like hope.

It felt a bit like coming home.

“Come on,” she said, tapping her fingers across the back of Mary Margaret’s wrist. “Lead me to the food.”  
  
The food, it appeared, was best at the bar because that’s where they’d ended up, perched on stools with tiny plates in their hands and David standing behind Mary Margaret. And it all felt a little bit like déjà vu, years spent in college perched on stools with David standing behind Mary Margaret.

They just had fancier hors d'oeuvres now.

“Everything ok?” Emma spun at the voice, nearly falling off the stool in the process, and was met with another smile and she nodded quickly.

“Great,” Mary Margaret answered, leaning across the small bar to rest her hand on the man’s arm. “Thank you so much for all the help, Eric.”  
  
He made a noise in the back of his throat, squeezing Mary Margaret’s fingers once before turning towards Emma. “So,” he said. “You must be the famous Emma.”  
  
“I don’t know about famous.”  
  
“No, no,” he argued quickly, but his smile didn’t waver. “Between my wife and Mary Margaret, you’re all I’ve heard about in the last twenty-four hours.”  
  
“Your wife?”  
  
“Ariel Havfrue. She’s here, somewhere, probably trying to get one of the guys to stick to a physical therapy schedule before the season starts.”  
  
“Ariel?” Emma repeated, trying to trace back through introductions until she was hit with a memory of green eyes and red hair and a very loud, fast-talking voice in the hallway on the thirty-first floor. “Oh,” she said, waving her hand through the air when she remembered. “I did meet her today. There were, uh, there were just a lot of people and names.”  
  
“I can only imagine. Well, as I said, you’re famous now, Emma, so I’m just glad the food is good.”  
  
Emma laughed and hooked the back of her shoe over one of the pegs in the bottom of the stool, chancing a quick glance at Mary Margaret who was smiling at her like this was all she’d ever wanted out of the entire world.

It probably was.

“Did you honestly close your whole restaurant for this, though?” Emma asked, scanning the crowd and they were all there for her and she was slightly overwhelmed all over again. Eric shrugged. “That’s...that’s very nice of you.”  
  
“Mary Margaret was adamant.”  
  
“Of course she was.”  
  
“I just wanted it to be good,” Mary Margaret said quickly. “Ruby and I figured it made sense to have it here because most of the team comes up here anyway during the week. Eric’s very good at keeping the roster fed.”  
  
Emma made a face that she hoped looked appropriately impressed and Eric scoffed, muttering contradictions under his breath. “That’s A’s fault,” he said. “I think she just hands out menus whenever she’s done with treatment.”

“I do not!”

Four pairs of eyes spun towards the shout and Ariel was standing in front of them, arms crossed tightly over her chest and a very specific type of look on her face. Eric sighed loudly, practically sprinting around the side of the bar to tug his wife to his side and kiss the top of her head. Her shoulders sagged almost noticeably and Emma got that same feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever David did something particularly _adorable._

She knew what it was – had known since she was nineteen and Mary Margaret had detailed the highlights of their first date – and was just as stubborn now as she was then, just as determined to ignore it as ever.

It didn’t really work well.

This had been some kind of day.

“I don’t,” Ariel continued, muttering the words against Eric’s shoulder and Mary Margaret laughed softly. “Tell him, Mary Margaret.”  
  
“I’m staying out of this,” Mary Margaret said quickly, hands held up in front of her as she leaned back against David’s chest.

“How do you two know each other?” Emma asked, feeling as out of place as ever in the middle of her own surprise party and she tried to remember all the reasons she’d agreed with Ruby’s earlier promise that she wasn’t intruding on anything.

“Oh,” Ariel said, laughing before she even started the story. “Well, I’ve known Ruby since she started with with the team, but Mary Margaret and I just kind of...ran into each other? We didn’t even meet through Ruby.”  
  
Mary Margaret nodded in agreement. “Nearly collided into each other when David and I walked into the restaurant a few years ago and Ariel was walking out and it all just kind of snowballed from there.”

“They were the witnesses at our wedding,” Ariel added, smiling at Emma as she nodded in Mary Margaret and David’s general direction.

“What?” Emma gaped, eyes going wide and Mary Margaret just nodded, seemingly unimpressed with the idea that she hadn’t mentioned that – ever.  

“Well, them and Killian.”  
  
“Killian?”  
  
Ariel nodded, scanning the crowd like this person would suddenly appear out of nowhere or materialize next to her and it must have been that kind of day, because she clicked her tongue when she found him and Emma’s eyes, somehow, got even wider.

It was the guy from the gym or the weight room and she should probably know the technical term for it now, but she didn’t spend much of her PR life in Los Angeles worrying about the gym or what the players were doing there.

“Killian,” Ariel shouted and his head snapped around quickly, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his face that Emma was already half convinced just _existed_ there.

“What?” he called back, not moving away from the small crowd around him and he didn’t really look like a hockey player.

He wasn’t _dressed up,_  but he wasn’t particularly dressed down either, dark shirt tucked into pants that were almost unfairly tight and and he was wearing _leather_ in _August_ and even if Emma hadn’t known who he was already, she would have taken one look at him and realized he was some sort of athlete. He was all black hair and far too blue eyes and long, lean lines that were probably just entirely muscle because Killian Jones didn’t look like a hockey player, but he was one.

The best one, if Emma was being honest.

And, of course, _of course,_  because in the grand scheme of how this day had gone, of course she’d been staring at a captain’s jersey in Ruby’s office and Killian Jones, captain of the goddamn New York Rangers was, somehow, at a surprise party for her and Mary Margaret knew the physical therapist and they’d all gone to some wedding together and no one had mentioned any of that to Emma.

He’d spent his entire career in New York – named captain just before they went to the Cup finals three years ago – and there was more to the story, something about his brother and a season spent on the sidelines because of something that happened with that brother or...no, not with the brother. With someone else?

Emma couldn’t remember.

Damn it. His brother had played hockey, hadn’t he? David would know. David would remember and Emma was half turned towards him, question on her lips and halfway out of her mouth when Ariel shouted again.

“Come here,” Ariel said, rolling her eyes for good measure and the smirk got even more pronounced as he glanced towards the people closest to him –  two other men and a woman Emma hadn’t actually been introduced to that afternoon. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”  
  
He moved through the crowd quicker than Emma expected, stepping into her space and she would have backed up if she weren’t still sitting on some sort of bar stool. Ariel glanced at Mary Margaret, smile tugging on the corners of her lips, and Emma tried not to look too frustrated with the growing suspicion that this was some sort of set-up.

“Killian,” Ariel said. “Emma Swan. Emma, this is Killian. He’s…”  
  
“I know who he is,” Emma interrupted, earning a quick eyebrow raise for her efforts and his smirk faltered for half a second as he rocked back on his feet.

“Ah, so you've heard of me?” he asked, hand pushed out into the small amount of space between them.

Emma nodded. “Kind of my job.”  
  
“Ruby mentioned something about PR.”  
  
“That was in LA. I’m strictly community relations here.”

Killian nodded, lower lip jutted out just a bit and he waggled his fingers when she didn’t immediately shake his hand. Emma tilted her head in response, eyes narrowed and this was _definitely_ a set-up. “I’m not going to check you, or anything,” he laughed and there was a sincerity in his voice that she didn’t expect either.

“That’d be kind of weird,” Emma muttered and the laugh got louder and Mary Margaret had jumped off the stool entirely, tugging on the front of David’s shirt with all the tact of some sort of giant animal wandering through a china shop.

Or however that metaphor went.

“It would be kind of weird,” Killian agreed, twisting his wrist and Emma saw half a dozen scars across the back of his palm, criss-crossing over the skin and making their way up his slightly crooked middle finger.

Emma took it a moment later, fingers wrapped over the red and she could feel where the skin was just a bit rough underneath her touch. He was warm.

“It’s nice to meet you, Swan,” Killian said, glancing up at her and Emma had goosebumps for a completely different reason than when she’d been freezing cold in Ruby’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! GUYS! I've been waiting so long to post this and I'm excited and slightly terrified and mostly thrilled to finally be getting to share this with you. I am not exaggerating when I promise that it is just a ridiculous amount of words and characters and sports-type feels, but this story is kind of my fandom heart and soul. 
> 
> As always, I am nothing without @laurenorder who fixes all my words, particularly when I just skip over them completely. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com
> 
> And make sure you check out all the CSBB because they're all incredible and chock-full of ridiculous talent.


	2. Chapter 2

“Explain to me again, why we’re doing this?” Killian asked, groaning slightly when he lifted the weight.

Robin eyed him critically and this wasn’t the first time he’d asked the same question since they’d walked into the room a few hours before, already running late and determined to ignore Victor’s pointed complaints about their inability to stick to some kind of schedule.

“Because,” Robin said, “Regina said…”  
  
“So what you’re telling me is that we’re going just because Regina said we had to?”   
  
“No, I am trying, not for the first time, mind you, to explain why we have to go uptown later on tonight. It’s Eric’s restaurant anyway, you’re telling me you weren’t planning on going uptown later on tonight?”   
  
Killian huffed, frustration working its way into every single muscle and that couldn’t have been good for the workout. He could practically hear Victor’s critiques from the other side of the room – something about  _form_ and  _even breathing_ and he’d heard it all before so many times he could probably repeat it verbatim at this point.

He wasn’t very good at listening to instructions.

Ever.

Which was why he wasn’t particularly interested in going uptown that night for some party just because his agent told him to.

“I wasn’t,” Killian said, realizing a bit belatedly that he hadn’t ever actually answered Robin’s question.

“Weren’t going to the party or weren’t going uptown?”   
  
“Take your pick.”   
  
Robin groaned and slammed down the weight in his hand and Victor was behind him in two seconds, a  _look_ on his face and frustration in that tiny crease that showed up between his eyebrows whenever one of them didn’t follow the explicitly written rules and instructions of the gym.

“Stand down,” Killian muttered, glancing up at Victor’s reflection in the mirror. “Robin’s not going to pull his arm out of his socket.”  
  
“He will if he just keeps dropping weights across my gym,” Victor argued. “Come on, guys, you know how this is supposed to work. You’re not even supposed to be over here either. We’re a week out from camp. If one of you gets hurt doing something stupid, Arthur’s going to have my head.”

“Not if Regina gets mine first,” Robin muttered and Victor’s eyebrows practically flew off his forehead.

“What’s going on?”  
  
“Are you going tonight?”  
  
“Of course, Ruby said she’d kill me if I didn’t.”  
  
“She probably will,” Killian added, grabbing another weight and ignoring Victor’s grumbling when he moved again.

“It’s at Eric’s, I almost don’t mind going.”  
  
“Why is everyone so obsessed with this restaurant? We live in New York. We’re all relatively well-known, we could, in theory, get into any restaurant we wanted.”  
  
Victor made a noise in the back of his throat and Robin didn’t even try and hide his disbelief and Killian rolled his eyes, putting the weight down as loudly as he possibly could.

He’d mostly done it for the reaction and it had, mostly, worked the way he wanted, but the response still managed to get under his skin and he really didn’t want to go uptown later that night, even if Ariel murdered him at center ice for not showing up to some sort of surprise party at her husband’s restaurant.

She’d be the first to point out that he  _owed_ her and she wasn’t entirely wrong.

That was part of the problem.

Ariel wasn’t a doctor, hadn’t actually performed the operation that kept his hand attached to his wrist, hadn’t even been there when he’d woken up, hooked up to every machine in the known world, all of them beeping and making noise and counting something that might have been his pulse, but she’d been there after.

She’d been there every day for a year, refusing to listen to him when he yelled or cursed or explained all the reasons this  _shouldn’t_ have worked.

She had ignored him – completely. And she’d fixed his hand.

Or fixed it enough that he could keep playing and, as far as Killian was concerned, that was the only thing that mattered. He still had semi-functioning fingers and he could still hold a stick, even with a glove on, and if he could do that then he could do just about anything.

He owed her.

And he was going to have to go uptown later that night.

Goddamnit.

Robin glanced at him, one eyebrow raised as he sank onto the end of one of the benches in front of the mirror and his shirt was just  _absurdly_  blue – as if that somehow made it more important or more official and Killian was half a breath from diving into the deep end of some very unwanted childhood memories.   
  
God, Liam was going to kill him. He needed to find his phone.

He snapped his head to the side, distracted slightly by the buzzing he could barely hear and that wasn’t his phone.

“What are you even looking for?” Robin muttered and Killian brushed him off, hand moving through the air as he turned toward the sound completely, eyes going wide for half a moment when he noticed someone standing in the doorway.

Two someones.

“Hey Rube,” Victor said, moving away from Killian and Robin for half a moment to make his way towards the media relations director and the noise that was, inevitably, her seemingly always-buzzing phone.

Killian shifted on his feet, eyes moving past Ruby as quickly as he’d noticed her, towards the woman behind her and the slightly nervous smile on her face when she shook Victor’s hand. He’d never seen her before and that might have been because he’d been far too focused on getting ready for camp and leaving Colorado and lingering smiles in the back corners of his memories that were a bit more difficult to walk away from this time around.

He came back to New York a few weeks before with just one thought in his mind - winning the Cup.

It was supposed to be their year last season.

It was supposed to be  _the_ year – the one that would change everything. They’d won the President’s Trophy for Christ sake and he’d played it all by the book, hadn’t touched it, refused to talk about it, wouldn’t even let Liam say the words out loud for fear that one of the twins would hear it and ask about it.

They were supposed to win.

They didn’t.

A first-round playoff loss to the goddamn Penguins and they’d won one game and scored three goals and it didn’t even matter that the Penguins went on to win the Cup, nothing made it any less painful.

They’d let people down – fans and front office bigwigs and probably a good chunk of people in Vegas who’d also believed it was  _the year,_  but mostly Killian felt like he’d let himself down and he couldn’t do it anymore.

He couldn’t come up short anymore. He couldn’t lose anymore.

Four years ago had been tough enough, a breath away from the Cup and bringing it to Colorado and letting the twins sit in it of it or whatever they wanted, and now he was in the final year of his contract and Regina in his ear about  _legacy_ and he felt as if he was split right down the middle.

He loved New York – had always loved New York, even when he was a kid and Liam had put a stick in his hand and pushed him onto a patch of ice in Central Park and told him to  _figure it out_ – and playing here had been the dream.

Always.

It had always been what he wanted.

Until there were other things that he wanted and he couldn’t seem to have both at the same time, stolen away before he even really had a chance to come up with any kind of plan for the future or what would happen when he didn’t put on an absurd amount of padding on and strapped skates to his feet and hit people for money.

It was gone and she was gone and Liam was on the other side of the goddamn country.

This season was going to change everything – for Killian and that pesky future he’d been doing his best to ignore completely ever since he was certain he’d lost it.

He needed to find his phone.

Ruby’s phone buzzed again and Killian rolled his eyes, drawing a laugh out of Robin and jerking him back to reality and the present. “Who’s that?” Killian asked, grabbing another weight and nodding towards the woman on Ruby’s side, not quite able to hear what they were saying to Victor.

“The reason you need to get uptown later tonight,” Robin mumbled.

“Hmmm?”   
  
Robin widened his eyes meaningfully and Killian turned back towards the doorway, straining to actually hear a single letter in the conversation and he nearly groaned when he heard the word  _schedule_ thrown around again.

Ruby’s heels echoed behind her when she left, the other woman, who still appeared nameless – just blonde hair that actually seemed to be reflecting the light of the entire sun and green eyes that probably could have cut their way into his soul or something equally absurd – followed behind her glancing back over her shoulder quickly before she moved and Killian got half a feeling that she might have been looking at him.

Ridiculous.

That would have been ridiculous.

He didn’t have time for something like that – he had a workout schedule to stick to, or pretend to stick to so Victor kept sighing dramatically whenever he walked across the gym, and a Stanley Cup to win and maybe a trade to negotiate.

And his phone.

He still needed to find his phone.

“Killian, if you don’t actually put those down and go find Ariel,  _I’m_ going to kill you,” Victor said sharply and Robin laughed under his breath before trying, and, failing to turn it into a cough.

“Who was that?” he repeated, hoping to get a bit more information out of Victor than the man who was supposed to be his best friend on this stupid team.

Robin’s fake cough was a sigh now and he rolled his eyes so intently that his neck actually snapped back and his gaze landed on the ceiling. “I already told you.”  
  
“A name, Locksley, give me a name.”  
  
Victor made a face, glancing at Robin and Killian sank onto the floor, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms tightly over his team-provided shirt. “Look who’s all interested in what’s going on in the office now,” Victor muttered.

“You’re both insufferable, you know that.”  
  
“Who’s insufferable?”

Killian glanced up, hands practically flying through the air as he pushed himself up quickly and nearly sprinted across the floor towards a visibly-stunned Will Scarlet. “What’s your deal, Jones?” he asked, flinching back like Killian was going to throw him into the boards. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Ariel?”  
  
“Does everyone know my schedule?”  
  
“She’s on some kind of war path, walked by her on my way up here. She got waylaid by Ruby and some other girl.”  
  
“You didn’t happen to hear that girl’s name did you?” Will lowered his eyebrows and glanced at Robin, who just shook his head in response. “God, Scarlet, don’t look at Locksley, just answer the question.”  
  
“What was the question?

Killian sank back onto the floor, ignoring Victor’s low noise when he dragged his shirt against the otherwise spotless mirror on the wall.

Will just laughed and he should have expected this reaction. It had always been like that.

The three of them had come up together – signed by the Rangers, somehow, in the same season – Killian drafted sixth overall, an up-and-coming American talent that had seized headlines since his travel days in high school and led his college team to a National Championship the same year he heard his name called.

Robin had come via trade, bartered off for two prospects and a player to be named later and, probably some money that hadn’t actually made it into the reports, and Will had been called up just two weeks after the draft, finally getting his chance and determined not to waste it.

They’d put them on the fourth line, the bottom of the barrel if there could really be a bottom of the NHL barrel, and that first season that was absolutely where they belonged. They were awful – plus-minus ratings in some metaphorical basement and barely any minutes on the ice and shifts that were over before they really began, coaches screaming and pulling hair out, metaphorically or otherwise.

It had been horrible and Liam had grumbled after every game, glaring pointedly at Killian as if somehow the fourth line’s failure was, inexplicably, his fault.

It probably was.

And then the playoffs happened.

And everything changed.

He’d scored the game-winner in overtime, Wil’s forecheck setting up Robin in the neutral zone and Killian was in front of the net before he realized he’d even skated there, finding open ice and a puck on his stick and he shot as quickly as he took his next breath.

It went in and they won and, suddenly, the fourth line wasn’t the worst place to be anymore – especially when the fourth line, eventually, became the third line and the second and, since Arthur had shown up and changed  _everything_ , the goddamn first line and it was some sort of childhood dream come true.

Or it would be if they could win the fucking Stanley Cup.

This season. They’d do it this season.

And, this season, Scarlet’s sarcastic voice wouldn’t make Killian want to cross-check him into the boards.

“A name, Will,” Killian sighed, “did you get a name?”  
  
He glanced at Robin again and they both seemed to be having some of  _other_  conversation within this conversation and Killian’s patience was wearing thin quicker than usual. “Nothing, man,” Will answered after a few more moments, but his eyes didn’t drift too far away from Robin. “I barely even said two words to Ruby before they were down the hallway and I could  _hear_  Ariel coming for you. I wasn’t interested in any of that.”  
  
“Emma,” Victor said suddenly and three heads snapped up at once. “Her name is Emma.”  
  
“PR?” Killian asked. "Media?"

Victor shook his head. “Community relations.”  
  
“Is that a thing?”  
  
“It’s definitely a thing.”  
  
“She’ll probably plan the opening night thing,” Robin said reasonably and Killian grimaced when he hit his head against the mirror he was still leaning against. The opening night thing was, without a doubt, his least favorite night of the year.

Well, no, maybe that was Casino Night.

Or anything that required him to appear in photo ops and autograph lines and smiling for cameras he wasn’t particularly interested in smiling for.

He had to – part of his contract and part of the  _game_ outside the game and Regina would absolutely kill him if he didn’t show up to these stupid events, but he hated them with a gusto that made everyone else on the roster laugh.

It’d be easier to get out of these things in a smaller market, easier to avoid that metaphorical and literal spotlight and he was back to square one – split down the middle between what he wanted and where he wanted to be and, mostly, he just wanted to focus on his game more and win the goddamn Stanley Cup.

“And she’s the reason we have to go uptown, tonight?” Killian asked, glancing at the people who claimed to be his teammates and his friends and were, very obviously, talking about him without actually saying any words.

It’s because they’d all been there when he woke up – wired up to those machines and more bruised than he’d ever been on the ice – and they knew what he’d lost in that moment and what he was fairly positive he’d never get back.

That, however, did not mean they weren’t going to try.

They did – regularly.

And maybe that was why Killian wanted to avoid fan-oriented events. And parties for some new fan-oriented, community relations manager uptown later that night. It always felt like some kind of a set-up.

He wasn’t interested in a set-up.

Or a lecture.

Or anything except winning.

“Well, no,” Robin said, shaking his head. “The reason you have to go uptown tonight is because there’s a whole list of people who will probably break your kneecaps if you don’t. I don’t think it has anything to do with Emma.”  
  
“Two people is hardly a whole list,” Killian argued. “And neither one of them would actually break my kneecaps. That’d just make more work for them.”  
  
“Take my exaggerated point for what it’s worth.”  
  
“You’re going to go?”  
  
“If I want to ever go home again, yes, I’m planning on going uptown tonight.”

“Scarlet?”  
  
Another hum of agreement and a shrug. “If Eric’s cooking food, then yeah, I’m going to go. I don’t care why Ruby planned the party.”  
  
“Ruby planned the party?” Killian asked sharply and he wasn’t sure why  _that_  particular piece of information seemed like the most important piece of information. “Why?”  
  
“Old friend,” Victor explained. “She helped Emma get the job, apparently.”  
  
“And we’re in the habit of just handing out jobs to old friends now?”  
  
“You did.”

Killian waved his hand in dismissal and Victor grumbled under his breath. “So, she’s just a friend of Ruby’s?”

“No.”  
  
“You’re being obnoxious on purpose.”  
  
“You streaked up my mirror.”

“Oh my God, answer the question.” Victor eyed Robin cautiously and Killian groaned, head hitting mirror again and even Scarlet looked a bit nervous, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the gym floor. “What? What could possibly be so bad about a community relations manager?”  
  
“She came from the Kings,” Robin muttered. 

Oh. That’s what could be so bad.

Killian stared at his feet and he should stand back up because he could feel three different pairs of eyes on him and he didn’t feel like answering questions.

“Killian Jones,” Ariel screamed, practically sprinting into the gym and those same three pairs of eyes that had been staring at him all jumped back simultaneously, practically snapping to attention. “Where the hell have you been?”  
  
He smiled in spite of himself and he had absolutely no sense of self worth because there was practically steam coming out of Ariel’s ears and, well, he was nearly half an hour late at this point.  

“I’ve been here, Red.”  
  
“Avoiding me.”  
  
“Would I do that?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, pushing himself up and ignoring Victor’s quiet sounds of despair when he used the mirror as leverage. “Jeez, Jones,” he sighed. “You can’t just stand up like a normal person?”  
  
“And miss the look on your face?”  
  
“Thank God the season’s about to start,” Ariel muttered, smacking at his shoulder for good measure. “You are frustrating when you get stir crazy.”  
  
“I’m not going stir crazy,” Killian countered. “Anxious. You been practicing taking swings? You’d get two minutes for that.”

Ariel groaned, head rolling back for added effect. “You’re trying to change the subject. It’s not going to work.”

“My hand is fine. I don’t think we need to worry about anything today.”

“Make a fist.”  
  
“Red.”  
  
“Do it, Jones.”  
  
Killian sighed and they were all looking at him again and he couldn’t quite stop himself from making noise when he tugged his fingers together, his sharp intake of breath giving him away as quickly as the grimace on his face.

Ariel even smiled.

“That’s just rude,” he mumbled and she laughed loudly, shoulders shaking and hair moving and he couldn’t quite bring himself to even be mad about it.

He owed her.

“I’ll go, I’ll go,” Killian grumbled and Ariel mumbled something that sounded like  _of course you will_  as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Tell Regina I’ll go so she can call off the dogs or whatever she’s got planned if I blew this off.”  
  
“There were no dogs involved,” Robin promised, but it didn’t sound quite honest.

“Probably just tracking devices,” Will mumbled and Victor laughed loud enough that Killian almost couldn’t hear Ariel’s vaguely impatient foot tap.

“Shut up Scarlet. Hey, A, you bringing that other friend of yours later?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ariel said, but she was smiling and her eyebrow arched into a perfect semicircle when she glanced meaningfully in Will’s direction.

“Have some pity on the poor man, Red,” Killian said, nudging her shoulder and it took less than half a second for her to crack.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, fine, she’ll be there later. She’s working tonight so she might be late, but I guess she’s coming straight from campus, so you might want to consider wearing something that isn’t team-branded later on Will.”

Killian let out something that might have been a whoop or possibly another laugh and Will glared at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care – far too pleased with someone else being set-up at some sort of team-sponsored event for the first time in as long as he could possibly remember.

“Whatever,” Will mumbled, grabbing the weight Killian had put down what felt like hours ago and Victor yelled, somehow, still surprised that no one was listening to his schedule or his week-before-camp rules.

“Come on, Red,” Killian said, slinging his arm over Ariel’s shoulder and tugging her towards the door like he wasn’t a half an hour late to his physical therapy appointment and she hadn’t had to come looking for him. “Let’s go.” 

* * *

He wasn’t late, technically, but he wasn’t really on time either and he heard about both of those facts as soon as he walked through the door.

In the last five years – since Ariel had fixed his hand and become some sort of  _pillar_ in Killian’s life – Eric’s uptown restaurant had become the unofficial meeting spot of the New York Rangers and it didn’t really make any sense because, technically, it was a seafood restaurant that wasn’t particularly close to the Garden, but it seemed to be close enough to everyone’s apartments and it was quiet and the food was good and everyone just...wound up there.

Almost every other night.

And no one bothered them, no one asked for pictures, or autographs or questioned the latest line on their Cup chances and Killian was there more than the rest of them combined, perched at the end of the bar on a stool that probably should have his name on it by this point.

Ariel called it his locker.

She thought she was hysterical.

“You’re late,” Regina said pointedly as soon as the door slammed shut behind him. Killian nearly jumped in the air, blinking twice to find her standing just a few feet in front of him, jacket twisted almost impossibly tight when she crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Jeez, Gina, were you just waiting for me?”   
  
“I figured you’d come with Robin.”   
  
He probably should have come with Robin. The cab uptown at 8:15 on a Friday night was practically highway robbery and he couldn’t actually bring himself to say that phrase out loud because it just made him  _feel_ old.

He should have split a cab with Robin or even with Will – already pulled into a corner with Belle who, it appeared, didn’t mind his team-branded t-shirt when she was clearly able to get out of work earlier than she thought.

Killian hadn’t done either because he’d spent the last twenty minutes making Facetime amends to a pair of four-year-old twins who were far more disappointed at their lack of a Candy Land partner on Friday night than he’d quite been ready for.

And he knew they were going to be upset, knew he’d have to deal with pouting and sad eyes and he still wasn’t quite completely prepared for it – or Liam’s inability to grab the phone out of his kid’s hands quick enough when they started shouting at each other, Elsa’s voice in the background as she tried to placate them just a bit.

It took longer than he thought and Killian had wound up in a cab uptown on his own, once again, feeling sorry for himself and cursing this Emma whatever her last name was and this stupid party he had to go to.

“I had some other stuff to do,” he said evasively when he realized Regina was still waiting on an answer.

“Hockey stuff?”  
  
“Gina.”  
  
“Rehab stuff?”  
  
“Gina.”  
  
“Promotional stuff that will help make them want to sign you to a max deal with or without the Cup this season?”  
  
“We’re going to win the Cup this season,” Killian said before he could stop himself and Regina smiled widely at him, like this had all been some kind of test to make him say anything except her name.

It probably had.

Jeez.

“God, Jones,” Ruby muttered, taking a step towards him and Regina and eyeing them both with a look that practically announced she was coming up with some sort of plan. “You ever talk about anything that isn’t the Cup?”  
  
“No,” he said immediately and Ruby laughed softly, shrugging as if she expected the answer. “Is there food yet?”  
  
Regina groaned, but Ruby’s laugh got even louder and she nodded towards the bar. “Eric’s been cooking all afternoon. Between him and Mary Margaret I barely even had do a single thing before I got here.”

“Mary Margaret’s here?”  
  
“Emma’s best friend from college. We grew up together.”  
  
“You and the PR girl?”  
  
“PR girl?” Ruby repeated skeptically and Killian made a face, not particularly impressed with himself either. “Come on, Jones, you’re better than that.”  
  
“Victor said community relations.”  
  
“Victor listens during introductions.”

“She came from LA?”

Regina made a noise and the back of her heel might have scraped across the floor when she moved towards Killian, hand half an inch away from his shoulder before she thought better of it and he appreciated that decision.

Ruby narrowed her eyes, tapping out an impatient rhythm with the toe of her shoe, and she twisted her mouth before she answered – like she was considering her options. She nodded. “She came from LA,” she confirmed. “Got laid off during that whole debacle after the conference finals.”  
  
“What’d she do in LA?”  
  
“You’d have to ask her that yourself.”  
  
“Or you can just tell me and then I can go get some food.”  
  
“You’re very frustrating you know that,” she sighed.   
  
“You should meet up with Ariel, between you and her and Regina, the three of you could probably get matching t-shirts or something.”  
  
“Jackets at least,” Ruby argued and he couldn’t hold in the laugh if he tried, even Regina sounding like she was passably amused. She sighed again, pursing her lips and her shoulders sagged just a bit. “She did PR in LA, ran the Kings entire department and she was good at it, like, absurdly good, but then Gold came and he bought the team and shipped anyone that wasn’t  _his_  out.”  
  
“And she wasn’t?” Killian pressed. “One of his?”  
  
“She’s here isn’t she?”  
  
“An answer, Ruby.”  
  
She glared at him again, but Killian didn’t back down and he was fairly stubborn as well – in addition to being almost perpetually late and determined to break every single one of the hockey-playing rules – and he was going to be stubborn about this.

“No,” Ruby said after what felt like several hours or possibly the entire week between now and the start of camp. “She’s not.”   
  
Killian hummed in approval, nodding his head as if he’d be able to do something even if she  _was_ one of Gold’s, as if that made a difference about anything and his mind drifted back before he could stop himself, fingers ghosting over the back of his hand and tracing up a path of scars that, he’d been reliably informed, would never go away.

Ruby made a noise and he could feel Regina’s eyes on him, gaze zeroed in on his fingers and how tightly he was squeezing his own hand and Killian took a deep breath, plastering a smile on his face that wouldn’t have fooled anyone – least of all the two women in front of him.

“There’s food?” he asked again and Ruby nodded towards the bar and the small crowd of people there.

He was halfway there when he heard Regina yell  _no alcohol_  and he didn’t even bother glancing over his shoulder when he shouted back, “I’m not an idiot.”  
  
“That’s yet to be seen,” Will countered, handing him a drink and Killian didn’t even question where it came from or what it was before tipping the glass back and it was water. Of course.

None of them, it appeared, were idiots.

At least not a week before camp started.

“You’re an ass,” Killian muttered, grabbing a handful of toothpick-stabbed food off a tray as it moved by his shoulder. “Why are you here with this ass, Belle?” he continued, glancing at the woman tucked against his linemate’s side.

“Oh, come on,” Belle laughed, hand falling just over the Rangers shield on Will’s t-shirt. “He’s not that bad.”  
  
“A glowing endorsement,” Will mumbled.

Killian nodded towards the t-shirt. “I thought we talked about this. No t-shirt with team-branded nonsense on it. Where’d you even get that? Grab it out of the equipment room on your way out of the gym?”  
  
“No, I grabbed it out my bag on my way out of the gym when I realized I’d forgotten another shirt.”  
  
“You’re an NHL player, Scarlet, buy another shirt.”

Will shrugged and Belle’s head landed on his shoulder and it was so sweet Killian almost rolled his eyes until he realized the only reason he wanted to roll his eyes was because he was so jealous he could hardly see straight.

He heard Robin’s shoes behind him before he turned around  – probably something about being so  _in tune_ that they were a lock for the Cup and Killian kind of hated himself for even thinking something that ridiculous. He didn’t even have alcohol to blame.

“Are we still talking about Scarlet’s shirt, because it’s awful,” Robin muttered, drawing a very loud groan out of Will and several front-office faces turned around at the sound and this was exactly why they shouldn’t mix the roster and the bigwigs who sat behind a desk. The faces turned back to their drinks and their food after a few moments and Robin quirked one eyebrow at Killian. “Look at it, that’s at least rookie season old. We haven’t been in a winter classic in years.”

“He found it in his bag,” Killian said.

“God.”

Will rolled his whole head in response, neck cracking as he moved and Killian was half a moment away from a quip about getting his own round of physical therapy, but he couldn’t work the insult out in time. “Where’s your kid, Locksley?” he asked, arm falling around Belle’s waist. “Father of the year, right here.”   
  
“Rol’s home,” Robin said evenly, not even blinking at the poor attempt at an insult. “And Gina’s going to drive the babysitter insane because she hasn’t put her phone away since we got here. She’s texting the poor girl every five minutes.”   
  
“The Queen’s got motherly instincts then?”   
  
Robin glared and they were bordering dangerously close to  _actual_ insults and camp was only a week away and they might be on the same line, but no one seemed to remember allegiances when suicide sprints were involved and bodies started flying around the ice.

In the realm of relationships Killian was jealous over, he hardly expected to be jealous of Robin and Regina and the little family they’d built on the Upper East Side. And it wasn’t really fair to be jealous because both Robin and Regina had been through their own obstacles, lost loves and lost spouses and a painfully adorable kid who absolutely thought that  _The Queen_ had motherly instincts.

They came to every game – and not just because Regina was the best agent in the city and Killian was in a contract year and Robin had just signed an extension – but because the New York Rangers had no bigger fan than Roland Locksley.

And seeing that kid in his dad’s jersey did something very specific to Killian’s heart strings, or whatever they were called, and he found, more often than not, he was on the phone or Facetime’ing Colorado as soon as he watched the whole post-game scene play out.

He was half a moment away from telling Will off and Robin looked a bit like he wanted to punch Will, but Belle smacked his chest first, fingers hitting up against the shield emblem on his ancient shirt. “Don’t be an ass,” she muttered.

And just like that it was fine – smiles and laughs and even Will agreed to being an ass, mumbling out an apology in Robin’s general direction.

The food was good –   _of course_ the food was good – and Killian was somewhere between asking the waiter to just leave the tray and trying to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t do that, because camp started in a week, when he heard Ariel shout for him.

“Killian,” she called and his head snapped around quickly, eyebrows pulled up and he  _knew_ that voice. She wanted something. God, this was a set-up.

He was absolutely going to blow off their next PT appointment.

“What?” he asked, not even trying to reign in his voice and he could feel the smirk on his face, there mostly just to get her to roll her eyes. It worked.

Ariel sighed and he couldn’t actually hear the sound, but he could see the movement, her shoulders heaving dramatically and when she shifted her feet he could catch a bit of blonde hair and, probably, green eyes a few feet behind her.

What was her name?

Emma?

She was wearing something different than she’d been in the hallway that afternoon – and something in the back of his mind roared to life at the idea that he actually remembered what she’d been wearing in the hallway that afternoon – red and fitted and he might have stopped breathing at some point because...he’d lost his train of thought.

And Robin was staring at him with some sort look on his face, lips parted and eyebrows pulled low and Killian actually shook his head, trying to remember where he was and maybe even who he was and, God, he was an NHL player.

He was the goddamn captain of the New York Rangers.

He didn’t even know what her last name was.

And he absolutely didn’t care.

Emma’s eyes met his and neither one of them blinked for  _years_ and she might have rolled her shoulders back because her hair moved just a bit, or maybe that was fate and it was all just playing out the way it was supposed to.

He’d lost his mind – completely.

“Come here,” Ariel continued, rolling her eyes again and he smiled even wider and he glanced back towards the small crowd around him. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

“Go,” Robin said and it sounded a bit like a command. Killian nodded once and he was walking before he’d even considered the idea of moving his feet, but skating was instinctual and this felt a bit similar and  _that_ probably should have been some kind of sign.

Walking towards her felt as easy as skating and skating had always been the easiest thing in the entire world.

She didn’t back up when he walked towards her, coming up closer than he’d originally intended, but he didn’t pull away and she didn’t blink and her dress was  _red_ and her eyes were green and that was all he saw or all he cared about.

It was absolutely a set-up.

“Killian,” Ariel said. “Emma Swan. Emma, this is Killian. He’s…”  
  
“I know who he is,” Emma interrupted and that caught him by surprise. He blinked once, trying to keep his fingers off his left hand or out of his hair and he knew the smile had fallen off his face for half a second as he rocked back on his feet.

“Ah, so you've heard of me?” he asked, falling back on bravado and confidence he didn’t really have even in a contract year and he kept his eyes away from Ariel, certain she was rolling hers again. Instead he stuck his hand out into the small amount of space between them and waited on her to make the next move.

Emma nodded. “Kind of my job.”  
  
“Ruby mentioned something about PR.”  
  
“That was in LA. I’m strictly community relations here.”

Killian nodded, lower lip jutted out just a bit and she hadn’t fallen for the act at all. That was interesting – most people did. She didn’t. She didn’t move an inch, just stared at his face and waited for him to say something else and he didn’t know what else to say. His hand was still hanging in front of them and Emma hadn’t moved her arms away from her sides, drawing his gaze down to her waist and that had absolutely been a mistake.

He twisted his lips when she narrowed her eyes, as if she were suddenly realizing something, and smiled genuinely, waggling his fingers at her until she looked down. “I’m not going to check you, or anything,” he laughed.

“That’d be kind of weird,” Emma muttered and his laugh got louder and he vaguely noticed a woman behind her tug on another man’s shirt and drag him away and they were both being set-up.

There was something to be said for even footing.

“It would be kind of weird,” Killian agreed, twisting his wrist and he hadn’t even realized it at first – he’d offered her his left hand.

Fuck.

Emma’s eyes fell down towards the skin and the scars and he could practically feel her gaze tracing up his middle finger and tried not to gasp when he felt her hand wrap around his. Her fingers were cold.

“It’s nice to meet you, Swan,” Killian said, glancing up at her and Emma smiled at him and he was glad he came uptown.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last time we'll kind of time travel here, but now we're all meeting and on the same page and snarky Ariel is my favorite kind of Ariel. 
> 
> As always, every click, comment and kudos is appreciated and absolutely freaked out over and you guys are all fantastic. Also @laurenorder is the best and should receive approximately 800,000 hugs from the internet. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Emma said and she was a bit surprised to find that she actually meant it. He hadn’t let go of her hand.

Or maybe she hadn’t let go of his hand.

This had been a weird day. And Mary Margaret was nowhere to be seen, dragging David to, quite possibly, the other side of the restaurant so quickly that he might have actually stumbled over his shoes in the process.

Killian quirked one eyebrow and the side of his mouth pulled up when he stared at her, the look making Emma’s pulse thud traitorously in her veins until she was certain it was the only sound she would ever hear again.

She glanced back down at their entwined hands, his thumb moving against the slight bend of her knuckle and she didn’t think he’d even realized he was doing it.

That seemed important.

“I think we’re being set-up,” Emma said quickly and her eyes widened when she realized what she’d done. The smile moved across Killian’s face slowly and that wasn’t even _fair_ – she’d had two glasses of wine already and he still hadn’t let go of her hand and, God, his eyes were blue. They probably matched his jersey.

Fuck.

What an absolutely ridiculous thing to think – although not quite as ridiculous as telling the captain of the New York _fucking_ Rangers that she was under the impression her friends were trying to set them up approximately five seconds after being introduced and staring at his incredibly scarred left hand.

Emma pulled her eyes away from their still twisted-up fingers and that was probably a mistake because he was far too good looking – bordering on almost _too_ good looking – and no wonder they plastered his face all over the Garden. It was a very good looking face. Except for that scar just under his right eye and she wondered where it had come from and if it was hockey related and a whole slew of other questions she probably shouldn’t be thinking while she was still holding onto his hand.

Emma needed to go home.

She didn’t have a home.

She had Mary Margaret’s couch and a distinct lack of personal space and half a dozen suitcases full of vaguely professional attire that was probably all wrinkled by now because she hadn’t bothered unpacking anything.

And this dress. She had this dress too. This absurdly red and far too expensive dress that, at some point during those introductions, might have actually drawn Killian Jones’ eyes towards her waist and maybe Emma actually hadn’t had  _enough_ wine.

Killian was still smiling. He needed to stop doing that. And he needed to let go of her hand. He didn’t do that either.

Emma sighed softly, tugging her fingers away from his and the smile still didn’t fall off his face. He was probably amused by all this, she thought begrudgingly, far too acquainted with red dresses and swooning fans.

Probably.

That wouldn’t explain the set-up though – Mary Margaret wouldn’t do that, not after...well, it didn’t matter. Emma was transitioning out of that particular point in her life and leaving all of that – Vancouver and LA and more _mistakes_ than one person should be allowed to make – behind. She wouldn’t unpack that particular suitcase.

She was on a metaphor roll.

And buzzed – mostly buzzed.

And Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers couldn’t seem to stop smiling at her.

He glanced down at her fingers when she crossed her arms, not even wobbling on the stool when she crossed her legs for good measure, hooking one ankle behind her heel and his eyes _definitely_ fell to her waist when he took another step closer to her, smile still plastered on his face like he found her amusing or something.

“Oh, it’s absolutely a set-up,” Killian laughed and Emma’s eyes were going to fall out of her head because they’d gotten so wide. That was probably the only appropriate ending for this day.

“You sound very certain.”  
  
“It was your suggestion.”  
  
“And you’re agreeing because…”  
  
“Because,” he said pointedly, glancing over his shoulder at the small group he’d left behind at the end of the bar. The three of them all seemed to collectively gasp, shoulders straightening and eyes ducking quickly and Emma let out a shaky laugh. “They live for this kind of thing. Think I can’t exist otherwise.”  
  
“I take it you believe you can,” Emma said and Killian hummed in agreement, leaning against the end of the bar until the curve of the wood was practically pushed against his hip. And she felt incredibly out of place again, in the middle of this restaurant that an entire hockey organization seemed obsessed with.

“Don’t you?”

“Sure.”  
  
He didn’t look entirely convinced, lips twisted like he was appraising her or her answer and Emma shifted until her foot fell off her ankle and her heel collided with the bottom of the stool painfully. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath and Killian’s hand was on her forearm before she’d blinked, something that almost looked like nerves on his face when he looked up to meet her gaze.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Sure,” Emma repeated and he sighed softly, almost sounding as if he was resigning himself to this decidedly horrible conversation. She made a face, scrunching her nose and squeezing one of her eyes shut and the vaguely pleasant buzz she’d felt after two glasses of wine was starting to ebb, the telltale signs of some sort of set-up induced headache starting to blossom in her forehead. “You want something to drink?” she asked. “I feel like I’m the only person drinking in this entire restaurant.”  
  
“Well, it is your party,” Killian pointed out.

Emma groaned and he laughed again and it almost felt normal, something in the back of her mind feeling like it was _settling_ – and that wasn’t really the right word because it wasn’t really that at all.

It felt comfortable.

That was probably a better word for it. It felt comfortable and there weren’t butterflies in her stomach or anything like that, it didn’t feel quite like anything she’d experienced before, it felt like he could _read_ her and that was even more ridiculous than butterflies in her stomach.

Killian’s eyes flashed up towards her and the smile was taking up half his face now, eyebrows doing something impossible when they moved up and down his forehead quickly and his fingers had wrapped all the way around her wrist.

“That was a bit out of my control,” Emma muttered, leaning forward almost instinctually. Or maybe he moved forward. She didn’t know and she could vaguely feel the stare of three pairs of eyes on her from the other side of the bar. Mary Margaret was whispering somewhere as well, four years of dorm-sharing making Emma more attuned to the sound of her voice than just about anything else in the world.

This wasn’t just a set-up.

It was an obvious set-up.

“Ruby does have a tendency to be vaguely enthusiastic,” Killian said, tapping out a rhythm on her skin. “But she did mention it wasn’t really her doing.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “I should have known as soon as she said Mary Margaret was here. You know she practically planned Red’s wedding single-handedly, came up with the theme and the color scheme and even bought me my outfit so I didn’t mess any of it up.”

“I can’t believe you know Reese’s,” Emma said, shaking her head. “You know it wasn’t like this in LA at all.”  
  
“Reese’s?”  
  
“You know like…”  
  
“The candy,” Killian cut in, nodding and her eyes widened when she realized he understood already. “Because Mary Margaret’s a mouthful and M&Ms...no, I get it. It’s inventive, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks.”  
  
“You were talking about LA?”  
  
Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tracing her finger over the rim of her still-empty glass and it shouldn’t have been nearly this easy to talk. She tried to convinced herself that it was the wine or the jet lag or the distinct lack of sleep she’d gotten on Mary Margaret’s couch the night before, but it wasn’t and she knew it.

She was comfortable.

“It was all kind of everyone in their own corner there,” Emma said, pulling her wrist out of Killian’s grasp when she started explaining things with her hands.

His eyes followed the movements and he didn’t say anything, just let her talk and she did just that, detailing Los Angeles and the lack of communication in the organization and how hard it was to get players to even show up to events, let alone talk to the media and she must have complained about the Staples Center scheduling issues for a solid five minutes before her mouth went dry.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, eyes falling back to her feet and the floor and everything in this restaurant was absurdly clean.

“For?”  
  
“I can’t imagine you were all that interested in the inner-workings of the Los Angeles Kings public relations department.”

Killian shrugged. “I asked.”

“You also never answered my question.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“A drink, do you want a drink?”

He almost looked disappointed, lips pressed together tightly when he shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, fingers tugging on that tiny piece that curled just under his left ear and Emma absolutely hadn’t stared at it eight different times since he’d walked over.

“Camp in a week, Swan,” Killian said, leaning back against the bar and she wasn’t certain when they’d delved into the _nickname_ territory. “And that small crowd of people who haven’t stopped staring at us since I got over here will all find a reason to come over here and kill me if I even consider the idea of getting a drink with you.”

Emma laughed before she could stop herself, smile working its way onto her face in way that was almost unfamiliar, wide and easy and his eyes were far too blue. It was making all of this easier.

“And who exactly is part of your set-up gang?” she asked, glancing over his shoulder. The crowd had been staring, all turning in unison when they realized Emma was looking at them and she didn’t even try to disguise her laughter. “Because they’re not good at this whole undercover thing. At least Mary Margaret and David walked away.”  
  
“They’re staring too,” Killian said, nodding towards the opposite corner and a wide-eyed Mary Margaret who pressed her forehead against David’s shoulder as soon as Emma looked over at her.

“What a little traitor,” Emma mumbled. “And here I thought I’d somehow found better friends than you.”

“No, Swan, it appears we’re on even footing when it comes to slightly overbearing friends. Although if we’re going to get into the detailed specifics of it, I think you’ll come to find that I’m the more pitiful one of us.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
He grinned at her, crossing his arms lightly over his chest and the sleeves of his jacket crinkled slightly “You’ll find rather quickly, love, that this team is quite a bit different than the one you’ve just left.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes at the endearment – if that’s even what it was, she got the sudden and distinct impression he was teasing her – and he didn’t miss a beat, tongue visibly pressed against the inside of his cheek when he moved his eyebrows.

“Several things,” she said, holding three fingers up as she started to tick off the list. “One, I am not your _love_ or whatever that’s supposed to mean. Two, I saw you talking to Ruby when you walked in, and if I know Ruby like I think I know Ruby then you’re already painfully aware of the fact that I didn’t _leave_ the Kings.”  
  
“And three?”

“Three,” Emma said, narrowing her eyes on the word, “I’m not all that good at giving out pity, so if you think you’re going to find some here, you’re going to end up a bit disappointed.”

He hummed, nodding like he was processing her list and Emma expected a bit more of a response than the one she got. “Good,” Killian said simply.

“You’re not digging for pity?”  
  
“You’ll find I rarely do that.”  
  
And there was more to it, more to the sentence and the words and it probably had something to do with his hand and the way he kept tracing over that one scar that ran up his middle finger, but Emma didn’t ask and didn’t plan to ask.

Because this might be a set-up, but she didn’t need to pretend like she cared.

She didn’t care.

Absolutely not.

Killian was just easy to talk to and the leader of this team that, apparently, was like some sort of New York family and as much as Emma didn’t want to admit it out loud that was, decidedly, the exact opposite of the team she’d just left – or been fired from.

She shifted on the stool again and Killian nodded so quickly Emma wasn’t entirely certain he’d moved, but there was another glass of wine in front of her and Eric was walking away from them without a single word.

“What did you do?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Got you the wine you’ve wanted since I got over here.”  
  
“How did you know it was wine?”  
  
“I have eyes?” Emma huffed and he needed to stop doing that with his eyebrows or she was going to throw down the metaphorical gloves she wasn’t wearing and challenge him to some sort of fight in the middle of that very clean restaurant. “You're something of an open book,” Killian explained, tapping his finger on the edge of the glass and Emma picked up slowly, eyeing him with caution.

“Am I?”

“Everything you’re thinking, right on your face.” He waved his hand in front of her and Emma pressed her lips together tightly, ignoring the wine she wanted to be drinking. “And those shoulders. All kinds of tense, Swan. Red would have a field day with you.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Ariel?”  
  
Emma nodded and took a sip of the wine, momentarily forgetting whatever standoff she’d been staging over the drink and Killian’s apparent ability to read her mind. “Physical therapy,” she said. “Husband owns the restaurant, inexplicably friends with Mary Margaret and David, which makes you inexplicable friends with Mary Margaret and David.”  
  
“Inexplicable?”  
  
“They’ve never mentioned you once.”  
  
His laugh made her smile and that was probably important or meaningful or _whatever_ and he’d hooked an open stool around the toe of his shoe, dragging it across the floor until he all but collapsed on top of it, grinning at Emma like she’d just signed him to a multi-million dollar deal.

“I will admit that’s disappointing,” Killian said. “But it does kind of go along with my theory that this is some sort of great big set-up.”  
  
“How you figure?”  
  
“Well, Mary Margaret and Ariel are friends. I owe Ariel some sort of never-ending life debt that she’s probably going to lord over me until the end of time and somewhere in between there Mary Margaret got to know me. And they’re here a lot when I’m here and when the team is here and I wouldn’t be completely surprised if Locksley and Gina were somehow involved in it too.”

He glanced over his shoulder and the group was somehow still staring at them, not even bothering to look away now and a woman standing next to one of the men muttered something in his ear, hand falling across the emblem on his t-shirt.

“Is that guy actually wearing a team t-shirt out?” Emma asked, leaning around Killian’s side. Her hand fell on his arm, mostly to keep her balance, and she tried to ignore the almost audible hitch in his breathing.

“We did our best,” Killian said. “Came up with rules before he got uptown and everything. I thought Belle being here would have helped, but Scarlet is nothing if not completely infuriating when it comes to dressing himself.”  
  
“Scarlet? Like Will Scarlet?”  
  
“One and the same.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, leaning forward to try and make out the small, obviously staring, crowd at the other end of the bar. The one in the team-branded t-shirt – Will Scarlet – kept glancing down at the woman next to him, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe she was standing there and he looked a bit more like a hockey player than Killian did – shoulders broader, hair buzzed short and Emma was fairly certain that was because he didn’t want to deal with hair and sweat and a league-mandated helmet.

The other one, who she was fairly positive she recognized by face alone and _absolutely_ would recognize if he was wearing a jersey or standing on the ice, wasn’t wearing team-branded merchandise and stared at Scarlet the same way David looked at her and he was definitely the _father_ of the group.

He was taller than Scarlet – and only slightly taller than the woman next to him, his arm slung over her shoulders, covered in a perfectly fitted jacket that probably cost more than the absurdly expensive dress Emma had on. Her hair was dark and her lips were _red_ and they matched her nails perfectly when she laid her hand flat across the man’s chest, almost smiling at something Scarlet said. Almost.  
  
“So,” Emma continued slowly and she was still staring at the crowd, fingers on Killian’s arm and his hand might have fallen on her hip. “That makes the other one Robin Locksley then?” Killian made a noise that sounded like an agreement. “Who are the women then?”  
  
He twisted around to see who was standing there, fingers tightening and Emma’s heart thudded loudly in her chest, practically announcing itself to the entire party. “The one next to Locksley is his wife and his agent, and my agent for that matter, Regina. She’s the one who accosted me by the door when I got here. And the one next to Scarlet is Belle who might be his girlfriend if he ever gets around to actually defining the relationship.”

Emma let out a low whistle and he was right – everyone on this team knew each other and, apparently, dated each other and it was definitely some sort of sports-related family. “Does she work for the team too?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Belle whatever her last name is.”

“French, her last name is French. And, no, she doesn’t. She works in one of the research libraries at Columbia.” Emma almost felt like maybe she wasn’t the odd one out and she could find some sort of ally in a librarian who didn’t spend most of her time at Madison Square Garden, but Killian wasn’t done yet. “She was friends with Ariel. Still is. That’s how she met Will.”  
  
Emma groaned and the smirk was back and she was halfway done with her wine already. “Of course she was.”  
  
“Ariel knows a lot of people.”

“What kind of life debt do you owe her?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said you owed her some kind of life debt and that was why, I’m assuming, you ended up as a witness at the wedding with Reese’s and David.”

“I didn’t mention being a witness.”  
  
“She did. Before you came over.”  
  
He moved his eyebrows and nodded slowly and Emma got the feeling they were treading on some vaguely thin and potentially emotional ice and that hadn’t been part of the deal – they were supposed to act like the set-up had worked and their friends would leave them alone for the rest of the season because the idea of a set-up on this team, apparently, meant some sort of life-altering romantic experience.

Emma wasn’t interested in life-altering anything – unless it meant she got to keep her job.

“Ariel’s PT for the team,” Killian began. “And she got the job about five years ago. Right before the playoffs started, which never made any sense at all, but she was there and she’s incredibly determined to help when she believes people need her help.”  
  
“And did you?” Emma asked. “Need her help?”  
  
“A bit desperately if I’m being honest. You can ask her, though, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to confirm that theory.”

“Why?”  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why were you desperate?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes and Emma wondered if she’d overstepped some invisible line of this conversation without even realizing it had been there. And then he held up his hand, moving his fingers and tapping against his palm for good measure. “It did make national news,” Killian said as if that was some sort of explanation.

It was.

And she still couldn’t quite remember where the brother fit into the equation – making a mental note to ask David about it as soon as they were back in the apartment and away from Killian Jones’ very blue and very distracting eyes – but Emma could remember the headlines and the news and the stories, even if she’d been in Vancouver at the time.

Killian Jones had been hurt – badly, end of career badly. There’d been a car accident and a mangled left hand and the stories claimed he’d never be able to hold a stick again. He missed the entire season after it had happened, had been relegated to some sort of advisor to the team and Emma thought she remembered rumors about how the team tried keep him off the ice, shut down the comeback before it could even pick up speed and she wondered when that particular part of the plan had changed.

“Ariel wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Killian said, answering the questions Emma hadn’t actually given voice to. “She’s not one to back away from a challenge. And I was a challenge. Angry and frustrated and, well, mostly angry. She also wasn’t very interested in dishing out much pity. And between her and Locksley and Scarlet and Gina, I got back on the ice.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath, twisting her fingers together and one of her knuckles cracked and it sounded like an anvil had just fallen on the floor. She tried to smile, worried she came up decidedly short on that front, but Killian met her gaze with a smile of his own and it wasn’t quite as tense as it should have been.

“They’re all even more determined this season,” he continued. “It’s a big year. And last year’s losses kind of refocused a few things.”  
  
“Yeah?” Emma asked. It wasn’t a big enough word, not a detailed enough question, but he had a very specific look on his face and it looked a bit like determination and desire and maybe it was the wine or how crowded the restaurant was, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to doubt him.

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Cup or bust?”  
  
Killian laughed and his smile was a little easier, eyes a little less intent, but just as focused on her as ever when he nodded, brushing his hair out of the way. “You should make that the team slogan.”  
  
“I think that’s part of my job, actually.”

“Ruby didn’t give you some sort of detailed list?”  
  
“Oh, no, she did. I plan on ignoring it and coming up with one of my own.”  
  
And she did.

Emma didn’t want to delve into _impertinent_ on her very first day, but there wasn’t really much to the list and she already had half a dozen ideas and she was going to make whatever opening night event the team hosted every season, at least, eight times better than it had been before.

At least.

This team was the opposite of everything she’d dealt with in LA, everything she’d considered the _norm_ for the NHL and it was enough to make her head spin, but it also meant she had more options than she’d ever had with the Kings.

And Emma wasn’t going to waste them.

“Don’t tell Rubes that though,” Emma said, widening her eyes meaningfully as her hand fell back over his left one. “She’ll probably lose her mind.”  
  
“Your secret’s safe with me, Swan.”

* * *

All in all, it really hadn’t been that bad.

It had been a set-up and a party and Emma walked out of the restaurant with even more faces and names and job titles swimming in front of her vision, but it had, almost, been fun.

She tried to pretend it hadn’t been because she’d spent most of the night talking to Killian Jones – wine glass refilled once more before he started ordering her water and it all felt a bit antiquated, but it was kind of nice and Mary Margaret smiled knowingly at her when they walked into the apartment well past midnight.

“You’re smiling,” she pointed out, nodding towards Emma when she closed the door behind her, head resting on the wood and eyes closing of their own accord.

“What?” Emma asked, snapping her eyes open as if to prove she wasn’t just awake, she was cognizant.

They’d agreed to play along with the _set-up,_  something vaguely conspiratorial in the way he smiled at her and she leaned towards him and their respective friend groups had returned at some point, smiles on their faces like they were witnessing the beginnings of some great, epic love story.

Mary Margaret still had that same look on her face and Emma resisted the urge to groan, far too buzzed on wine and a day that seemingly refused to end and Killian Jones had been frustratingly charming all night.

He made fun of Will’s shirt – taking the responding grumbling in stride, like he’d been expecting it – and asked about Robin and Regina’s son and even promised Ariel that he’d be on time for their PT appointment in two days.

Although that last one had taken a bit of convincing.

And Emma had been vaguely charmed by it all, smile actually starting to wear on the muscles in her face and she was split right down the middle between _wanting_ to have this conversation and this set-up and being as stubborn as ever, certain things like that didn’t happen for her, not ever and, certainly not, with the captain of the New York Rangers.

It had been a set-up and they’d agreed to play along for one night, but that was it – they were doing it for show.

Absolutely.

They’d never actually said it, but that’s absolutely what was going on.

Emma was certain – as certain as she was that there was more to the story about Killian’s hand  and Ariel and that life debt that caused a minimal amount of physical therapy grumbling.

“You’re smiling,” Mary Margaret repeated and Emma was certain she didn’t even imagine the vague sing-song tendencies of her friend’s voice.

“And you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”  
  
“I don’t think so.”  
  
“C’mon, Reese’s. It was one night and we mostly agreed to play along so everyone would leave us alone.”

Emma almost felt bad, grimacing when she noticed Mary Margaret’s shoulders slump a bit and David made some sort of noise that sounded a bit like disapproval and made her feel as if she was fifteen years old and had been caught breaking curfew.

It took less than five full seconds for Mary Margaret to regroup, an endless source of positivity and _true love_ in a sea of Emma’s disbelief and cynicism.

“It didn’t look like that,” she said, voice rising and falling as she turned towards the small alcove in the corner that pretended to be a kitchen. Emma heard the faucet turn on and off and there was a glass of water pressed in her hands before she realized it, Mary Margaret back in front of her with a concerned look on her face. “Drink that,” she said.

“Yes, Mom,” Emma answered, a picture of obedience that added fuel to the theory that she had, somehow, become Mary Margaret and David’s adopted child in the last forty-eight hours.

David threw himself onto the end of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in frustration. It was, almost, painfully domestic. “Come on, Em,” he said, not quite able to keep the laughter out of his voice. “You know your mother just has your best interests at heart.”  
  
Emma scoffed and sank onto the other end of the couch, kicking off her heels without a second thought as to where they would land and Mary Margaret looked almost scandalized at the current state of her friend and her boyfriend and her entire apartment.

“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” she muttered, glancing at David out of the corner of her eye. “How come you guys didn’t tell me you were so entrenched in this whole hockey world? I thought you were both just bipartisan fans.”

“Well, to be fair, I was never bipartisan about anything when it came to the Rangers,” David said and Emma knew she had to agree, no matter how much she didn’t want to. He’d never actually _painted_ his face blue, but David Nolan was a fan with a capital ‘f’ and Emma was fairly certain there wasn’t anyone in the entire world who had been more excited about her new office at Madison Square Garden than he had, certain it would end with season tickets or playoff seats right behind the boards.

That, of course, made the whole night even more confusing.

David should have been screaming from the mountaintops that he knew Killian Jones and had attended the same wedding as Killian Jones and this was a world Emma didn’t entirely understand, where it felt as if everything was flipped on its head.

“And we’re not _really_ part of the hockey world,” Mary Margaret added, knocking her knuckles against the front of Emma’s shin so she’d move her legs enough that there was room to sit down on the coffee table. “We’re kind of on the fringe.”  
  
“A fringe you never once talked about.” Mary Margaret sighed and, not for the first time that night, Emma got the distinct impression she wasn’t getting the entire story. “Come on, tell me, what could possibly be so bad?”  
  
“It’s not bad,” David said quickly and it was far too quick to be entirely honest.

Emma narrowed her eyes, refusing to look away from Mary Margaret and it was a tried and true method of prying the truth out of her best friend and recently reacquired roommate. “It isn’t,” Mary Margaret said and she sounded honest. Emma tried to hold out, lips twisted in disbelief. It took one eyebrow raise and a single head tilt and she’d won.

And Mary Margaret knew it.

She smiled at her, hand flat against her shin now as she squeezed Emma’s leg and glanced quickly at David. “It isn’t,” Mary Margaret repeated. “It’s just that we didn’t want to kind of lord it over you.”  
  
“Lord what over me?”  
  
“That there was this other team that your friends knew and one of your other friends worked for and it was the exact opposite of LA. And then the whole thing with LA happened and the job and…”  
  
“Nope,” Emma interrupted quickly, sitting up so fast that her legs practically flew off the coffee table and Mary Margaret actually lost her balance. “I knew it! I knew there was more to it. This was a set-up.”  
  
“You already knew that,” David pointed out. Emma ignored him, eyes not leaving Mary Margaret’s face and she at least had the good sense to blush a little bit.

“Why, Reese’s?”  
  
“Because you were upset about LA and Ariel had mentioned a few things about Killian and, well, he didn’t bring a date to the wedding!”  
  
“You’re not even his friend.”  
  
“That’s just rude, Emma.”  
  
Emma scoffed, sinking farther into the couch until her hair fanned out over the back and she couldn’t even pretend to be mad. She understood why they did what they did – why both her and Killian’s respective friend groups and teammates and, jeez, probably linemates too, she’d never bothered to ask where Robin and Will played, had done what they’d done – but that didn’t mean she appreciated it all that much.

She wasn’t a charity case.

And she already felt bad enough that she’d gotten this job without really much of an interview and just the promise from Ruby that she’d be _great_ at it. That felt a bit like cheating. Emma didn’t need to feel guilty about something else or want something else or require Mary Margaret to plot out her entire potential for future happiness in New York as soon as she’d landed at JFK.

She was happy. Or in the transitional period just before happy.

She was certain happy was just around the corner. It was, as Mary Margaret would probably say, inevitable.

Emma had never quite _believed_ the way Mary Margaret did – that particular trait was more or less flushed out of her system after the third foster family and the second group home – and she knew there wasn’t anything even remotely resembling happily ever after.

At least not for her.

It was a bit cynical and even kind of depressing if she stopped and thought about it for too long, but Emma did her best not to think about it for too long.

Or ever.

And as much as Emma appreciated what Mary Margaret had been trying to do, she had to put a stop to it as quickly as humanly possible because she’d learned her lesson in LA and she wasn’t about to let history repeat itself in New York.

That’s what the _transition_ was for – she was going to transition out of mistakes and old Emma and everything that had made LA absolutely awful and she was going to find a brand-new home in New York.

She was.

Emma was determined.

It was all going to be fine and she hardly needed to be set-up by an entire hockey team and a pair of college friends to prove that it was going to be fine.

Mary Margaret looked disappointed and Emma sighed, leaning forward as she dragged her hair back over her shoulder and tried to smile like everything was as fine as she was convinced it would, eventually, be.

“His friends were, apparently, just as quick to interfere,” Emma said, hand falling on Mary Margaret’s bent knee.

“It wasn’t interfering!”  
  
“That’s exactly what it was and you know it and I know it and Killian knew it, but it’s ok. We played along for tonight and it wasn’t all that bad and it was at least good to get to know him for work stuff.”  
  
“Work stuff?”  
  
“Community relations?” Emma asked, pointing at herself like the title was some sort of formal introduction. “He’ll be good for cameras and if memory serves the fans love him, oh my captain my captain and all that kind of stuff.”

“No, I understand, I’m just curious if that’s all it was.”  
  
“You’re really not going to let this go?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged and even David looked a little bit uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. He leaned forward, tugging Emma’s hands away from her hair and glanced meaningfully at Mary Margaret who, it appeared, had finally taken the goddamn hint. She huffed slightly, shoulders sagging again, but she didn’t wax poetic about the power of love and dating someone from work – _again_ – and Emma smiled gratefully in David’s direction.

“You two are conspiring against me,” Mary Margaret accused, but she was smiling again and it wasn’t quite as _weird_ as it had been when she was absolutely planning the Swan-Jones wedding a few minutes before.

“Consider us linemates,” David said and Emma actually tried to melt into the sofa cushions at the absurdity of the pun.

“Oh my God,” she sighed. “No, no, no, just because you’re treating me like your kid does not mean you get to actually make dad jokes, that’s just taking it a step too far.”  
  
“That was a good one though.”  
  
“I don’t care.”

David rolled his eyes, throwing a decorative pillow at Emma and Mary Margaret groaned dramatically and maybe this was the transition she’d been waiting for the last two years she’d spent in LA and those few hours she’d sat in seat 24B pondering how she’d managed to not entirely fuck everything up.

It felt like home.

“Just promise me one thing,” Emma said, staring intently at Mary Margaret. “No more set-ups, ok? Not with anyone and especially not with the captain of the New York Rangers?”  
  
Mary Margaret twisted her lips and for one, vaguely horrifying moment Emma thought she was going to object, but she just nodded instead, pinky held out in front of her meaningfully. Emma caught it with her own, squeezing down tightly the same way she had when they first met at freshman orientation and promised to look out for each other _no matter what._

“Deal,” Mary Margaret said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Emma squeezed her pinky again and her jaw snapped shut.

“I am.”  
  
“You are what?”  
  
“Happy. This is going to be different from LA. They’re going to win the Cup here.”  
  
“You better believe they are,” David muttered and there was so much fandom in his voice, Emma couldn’t believe he didn’t just turn blue and start singing the goal song as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“You got money on it or something?”  
  
“I’m pleading the fifth.”  
  
“That seems like breaking the law or something, Detective.”  
  
“Shut up, Em.”

“You cool with this, Reese’s?” Emma asked. “He’s gambling away your wedding savings.”  
  
“No, he’s not,” Mary Margaret muttered and there was something on the edge of her voice that made Emma quirk one eyebrow and twist her lips in confusion. “That might have been why I was trying to distract you,” she added.

“Ah! So it was a set-up.”

“You knew that already.”  
  
“Explain what you meant.”  
  
“I meant that we might have set a date.” Mary Margaret smiled and David’s hand fell back to Emma’s shoulder like they were both waiting for her explosion or some sort of cynicism and it probably should have come – but it didn’t.

She yelled, but it was more from excitement than anything resembling disappointment. And Mary Margaret looked appropriately surprised.

“When?” she yelled, jumping up and shaking Mary Margaret’s shoulders quickly. David looked a bit like he’d just witnessed some sort of alien abduction.

“When did we decide or when is the actual date?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“We decided two days after you went official with the team and then we decided late June.”  
  
“Post-Cup win,” David added and Mary Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Because June is warm and New York won’t smell like garbage yet.”  
  
“Post-Cup win,” Emma repeated, smiling knowingly at David who had stood up at some point and he hugged her tightly, hand wrapping around the back of her head and, suddenly, everything seemed to settle into place.

She was done transitioning.

Emma Swan was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I sound like a broken record, but I am absolutely psyched and vaguely overwhelmed by the incredible response to this fic. You guys are fantastic. I can't thank you enough for every click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes all of this better simply by glancing at it. Tell her she's wonderful too. And come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

A week.

He hadn’t seen her in a week.

And not that he was bothered by that. Not really. Not quite. He wasn’t.

It was fine.

Killian normally skated like crap the first day of camp anyway – something about rust and getting back on track and absolutely nothing to do with Emma Swan or not seeing her for the last week.

They’d played along with the set-up all night and she hadn’t moved off that stool and it shouldn’t have been that _easy_ – to talk to someone like that and he wasn’t even _mad_ about the blatantly obvious set-up, not when she put her hand on his knee or didn’t flinch when he leaned towards her, not quite fighting off the instinct to be just a half an inch closer.

It had been fun.

It had been easy.

They’d smiled and they’d laughed and their respective, vaguely interfering groups of friends almost looked like they believed it by the time they’d collectively drummed up enough courage to come back to the corner of the bar.

It had felt real.

Which was absurd. Of course. It wasn’t real. They were playing along, acting out so their respective, vaguely interfering groups of friends would leave them alone and stop worrying about some sort of _happily ever after_ that neither Killian nor Emma seemed particularly interested in.

He didn’t need that.

He’d tried it once and it hadn’t worked and, well, that was that. As they say.

And Emma, very clearly, didn’t need it either because it had been after midnight and she’d smiled softly at him and muttered that it was _nice to meet you_ again before taking David’s offered hand and hopping off the stool and walking out of the restaurant.

He should have asked for her number.

No.

That would have been a mistake. They were just _playing_ or whatever word they wanted to use. He hadn’t spent the last week trying to come up with some kind of description for it or trying to forget the way her hair fell over her shoulder or that thing her eyes did when she got caught by surprise, which happened several times that night.

Idiot.

He was an idiot. And he was about to get cross-checked.

Killian groaned when he felt the boards in front of him, the edge colliding with, at least, six different internal organs at once and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to move his shoulders so Will would, literally, get off his back.

“Jesus Christ,” Killian muttered and Will laughed when he finally moved away, skating backwards with more grace than he’d ever exhibited in a real game. “What the fuck, man?”  
  
Will clicked his tongue and held up one hand, dragging his stick along with him as he kept moving away from Killian. “Pay attention, Cap.”  
  
“Was that supposed to be some sort of lesson? God, I think you just severed my liver.”  
  
“A delightful picture,” Robin muttered, skating up to Killian’s side and coating the edge of his skate with ice as he skidded to a stop.

“Learn how to skate,” Killian shot back, glaring at his linemates and supposed friends and if he gripped his stick any tighter it was absolutely going to snap in half.

Kristoff would kill him if he snapped his stick in half.

It had been a long week.

“You’re the one who’s barely been able to move all day,” Will pointed out, tilting his helmet back so he didn’t have to look through the league-mandated visor. He arched his eyebrows meaningfully. “Something you want to share with the class, Cap?”  
  
Robin stared expectantly at him and Killian rolled his eyes, neck audibly cracking when he glanced up at the ceiling of the practice facility and, _fuck,_  they were all going to have share a car back to the city.

The questions were never going to end.

“I mean you always skate like shit on the first day,” Will continued, seemingly oblivious to Killian’s growing frustration. “But this is like a whole other level. Can’t win the Cup if the supposed leader of this team looks like garbage from the get-go.”

Robin muttered something and Killian didn’t hear it, red tinging the edges of his vision as he moved a bit closer to Will and that might have been the easiest he’d skated all day. There was a small crowd around them, players leaning on sticks and up against the boards and even Arthur was watching them, like he was waiting for it all to come to some sort of boiling point in the far corner of the rink.

It might have been.

Fuck.

He should have asked for her number.

“What is your problem, Scarlet?” Killian asked and his grip loosened around his stick just a bit, almost as if he was getting ready for something.

Will glanced down at his hands, tapping out a rhythm against the wood even through his glove, and he shrugged. “You tell me, Cap. You’ve been in a funk for the last week and now you come out here and you’re barely even moving and this isn’t going to work if you’re not paying attention.”  
  
“You think I’m not paying attention? It’s been two hours.”  
  
“And you’ve skated like garbage. You even touch the puck yet?”  
  
His helmet was off and his gloves were off and his stick sounded like a boulder when it hit the ice, Will’s jersey gripped in his hands and the asshole actually had the audacity to smile, like he’d been waiting for this moment the entire goddamn afternoon.

He probably had.

He’d probably come up with the plan before they even laced up, detailed the specifics with Robin, made sure Arthur knew about it beforehand so he didn’t blow that far-too-shrill whistle before Killian exercised some sort of emotion on Will’s jaw.

He wasn’t much of a fighter – that was usually Will’s role if he was being honest – but Killian had a temper and hockey was as good an outlet for that as anything. He hit and he hit hard and he’d had more penalty minutes last season than he’d ever had in his career and most of them had come from boarding and that cross-checking technique he’d taught Will. The same one the asshole had used on him a few minutes before.

Asshole.

He’d used Killian’s own technique.

It wasn’t really his fault – and that was as much of a lie as any he’d tried to tell himself all week, determination to forget the green in Emma Swan’s eyes coming up decidedly short of hitting its mark. The temper had been a problem since he’d been eight years old and his mother had died and his father had left and he and Liam had one bag of clothing between them by the time they walked into the brownstone downtown.

It had been a big house, bigger than anything Killian had ever even thought existed in New York, far too used to that tiny one-bedroom that wasn’t really a one-bedroom, more just a sheet tacked to the ceiling so his mother would have some privacy, and it didn’t even have its own bathroom.

The bathroom was down the hall.

So he’d been mad and angry and upset and Liam had done his best, but he was just as mad and angry and upset and they were far too young to really be dealing with any of it – even if they’d somehow managed to stay in the same city.

The Vankald family was rich – _absurdly_ rich – and they owned an entire brownstone in SoHo and they, apparently, wanted to take pity on a pair of parentless brothers from above 125th. Killian and Liam had brought their one suitcase on a Thursday.

It had been July – hot and sweltering and it smelled like garbage, even in front of that enormous brownstone – and everything had changed.

They never left.

And the anger started to ebb just a bit, thanks to dinners every night and Elsa and Anna and a _family_ that Killian had all but given up as soon as his mother was gone.

It had been Liam’s suggestion and they’d agreed immediately, something about idle hands and the Devil’s work and Mrs. Vankald was practically overflowing with clichés at any given moment, but they paid for all of it and that was good because it only took one practice for Killian to realize that hockey was expensive.

There were pads and sticks and helmets and lessons and ice time and town-car rides to Chelsea Piers because, in addition to a never-ending supply of clichés, Mrs. Vankald was vaguely terrified of public transportation.

She never found out about that time Liam and Killian snuck Elsa and Anna on the uptown one and took them above 125th and they’d come up with some sort of vaguely over the top lie when Anna got food poisoning from the halal cart.

But it had been Liam’s idea – the uptown one train _and_ hockey – and they’d been good. Killian had been good. Liam had been even better.

He set the record for goals at their high school – which wasn’t saying much because high school hockey in New York City wasn’t saying much – but then he did it at that prep school in Connecticut too and then, for good measure, did it for a third time at Minnesota and his number was hanging in the rafters now.

It didn’t take any thought to follow in Liam’s footsteps – two years behind – and just as determined as ever to be as good as his brother and Killian signed his letter of intent and his scholarship offer without even listening to another school.

He went to Minnesota and he went with Liam and people talked about _the brothers Jones_ in almost reverent tones in that tiny, little college town where hockey was the only thing that ever really seemed to matter.

They won a title Killian’s freshman season – both earning points on the game-winner when Liam set him up in front of the net and there was probably something about that, a cliché Mrs. Vankald could have come up with if they’d given her half a chance to. They hadn’t. They’d hugged her instead and shook Mr. Vankald’s hand and everything changed all over again that night.

It had been a Saturday.

Elsa kissed Liam or Liam kissed Elsa and it didn’t really matter who did what because it had probably been in the works since they were both teenagers and refused to meet each other’s eyes across the dinner table.

And Killian wasn’t jealous, he _wasn’t_ – he was happy for his brother and the smile on his face that never seemed to actually go away, but there was something in the back of his mind, some nagging feeling of want that he couldn’t quite ever seem to shake, even now, more than a decade later.

They both declared at the same time – a joint press conference in front of a Minnesota-branded backdrop that actually had cartoon gophers on it, with the Vankald family in the corner of the room and Elsa had absolutely cried.

She’d never admit it, but she had.

Anna laughed – loudly and vaguely over the top – when Killian knocked over one the microphones on the table and sent a reporter’s phone careening onto the floor. She talked about it every time she saw him.

And, as with most things when it came to the brothers Jones, they found their NHL footing together.

Liam hadn’t been nervous and, even now, Killian couldn’t quite figure out how he wasn’t – practically shaking in the suit Mr. Vankald had actually _bought_ and trying not to destroy any other microphones when they were paraded down some sort of carpet like celebrities.

He heard his name before Liam and that didn’t make much sense either, but there hadn’t been anything except pride in his brother’s face and he hugged him tightly before Killian walked on stage and they handed him a jersey with his name on it.

Liam went in the second round and the Rangers traded up – and likely spent a good chunk of cap space – and the brothers Jones moved back to New York and the Vankalds were beside themselves. Elsa absolutely cried again.

It took a little while, but they became some sort of unstoppable force – finding a rhythm that analysts and journalist and columnists all claimed _they’d never seen from American players_ and then Will and Robin had joined and there were headlines and people called them the three musketeers, plus one and it was absurd and perfect and everything Killian had ever dreamed up on those car rides to Chelsea Piers.

And then it wasn’t.

Because of course it wasn’t and the anger and the frustration slowly came back and Killian started hitting just a bit harder than usual and cross-checking just a bit more than he ever had and things kind of...tail spinned.

He probably should have asked for Emma Swan’s number. Or maybe tried to find her office before they spent the entire day in Tarrytown.

Arthur’s whistle shook Killian out of his own head and Will was unsuccessfully trying to pull his hands off his jersey while staying on his skates.

“God, that whistle is the worst,” Killian mumbled and Will scoffed under his breath.

“Still with us, Cap?” Robin asked, hand falling on Killian’s shoulder as he, finally, let go of Will’s jersey. They hadn’t even thrown any punches.

“Yeah, yeah, still here.”

Will made some sort of noise in the back of his throat and skated back a few feet, eyeing Killian like he was a recently uncaged animal who was liable to pounce at any given moment. He bent over to grab Killian’s stick, pushing the blade into his side and he’d absolutely done it on purpose and it wasn’t a punch, but it hurt like hell.

“You should have asked her out,” Will said pointedly and Killian almost dropped the stick again.

He snapped his head up and he should probably tell Ariel that his neck was cracking this much because he wasn’t quite that _old,_ but that would require more PT appointments and, probably, more questions and suggestions he didn’t really want to hear.

“Drop it, Scarlet,” Robin said, but Will just shook his head.

“Come on, man, this was half your idea too! Don’t leave me to hang out here to dry just because Cap won’t actually punch _you_ in the face.”

Killian spun on Robin, digging a line into the ice for good measure and Arthur hadn’t stopped blowing that goddamn whistle. “I knew it,” he muttered, tugging the stick under his arm so he could pull his gloves back on. “When did you even find the time?”  
  
Robin shrugged. “It’s really Ariel’s fault. She and Ruby talked to Mary Margaret, I guess.”  
  
“Oh my God, is this high school?”  
  
“Hockey.”  
  
“So the same thing.”  
  
“Exactly,” Robin agreed, but there was a smile on his face and Arthur had seemingly given up trying to control his practice. Killian vaguely heard something that sounded like _five minutes_ and _water_ and something else that might have been _sprints,_  but he ignored that last part specifically. “Apparently she was  _smiling._ ”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
He shrugged again, but _he_ was smiling, reaching blindly behind him to try and find a water bottle on the other side of the bench. “There’s a whole story there, I’m sure, and I’m also sure if you want to know the specifics of it, you only have to ask A, but from what I understand of it, they were trying to set her up as much as we were trying to set you up.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Robin quirked one eyebrow and Killian had asked the question far too quickly to sound anything except the curious that he absolutely was. He tried to brush it off, tapping his stick impatiently on the ice and it didn’t work – Robin knew him too well and had seen too much and heard too much and, well, there was a reason he’d agreed to whatever Will had come up with before practice. He wanted to help.

There weren’t many people who knew what happened after the accident, or before the accident for that matter, and they’d done their best to keep it out of print and away from reporters and post-game press conferences. Killian could count on one hand, scarred or otherwise, the number of people who knew the truth and he wanted to keep it that way.  
  
It was easier that way.

And after all of this, he was ready for a bit of easy.

Which explained why Killian never actually asked for Emma Swan’s number or tried to find her office or been able to stop thinking about her for the last week – because, in the few hours they spent crammed at the end of the bar with her hand on his knee – he’d come to the rather sudden realization that she was the exact opposite.

Talking to her was easy. She was not.

She was tough and guarded and her eyes did that _thing_ when she got caught by surprise and she very clearly did not appreciate being caught by surprise.

He’d made that mistake once already, gotten in too deep too quickly and it had nearly cost him everything. He wasn’t going to do it again.

Even if he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“Shut up,” Killian mumbled, grabbing the water bottle out of Robin’s hand.

“I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“I could hear it anyway.”  
  
Robin chuckled under his breath and dug the front of his blade into the ice. “I’m just saying, there’s more to her than I think a few hours at a party she didn’t even really want are going to provide. And Mary Margaret did tell Ariel she was smiling and she only really talked to you the whole night.”  
  
Killian’s stomach did something he was positive hadn’t actually happened since he was a teenager and he was the captain of the New York fucking Rangers, this was ridiculous. He didn’t need this.  
  
He had a contract to work for and a Cup to play for and some sort of future to secure. He didn’t have time to be distracted by anything else that wasn’t explicitly easy.

Robin did not take the hint.

“A seemed fairly convinced she’s got some sort of big-time skeleton in her Los Angeles closet,” he continued.

“Ruby already said she wasn’t one of Gold’s,” Killian muttered, keeping his voice low so no one would overhear them.

“I’m sure that’s the first thing you asked.” Killian hummed, a noncommittal sound that just made Robin shift his eyebrows slightly and tug on his lower lip with his teeth. “Rubes wouldn’t lie, at least not about that, but, like I said, A seemed certain. She said Mary Margaret didn’t want to talk about it, something about how _it wasn’t her place,_  but I guess it was enough to make her want to get out of LA.”  
  
“She got fired,” Killian reasoned. “That’s what Ruby told me.”  
  
Robin made a noise again and Killian had to swallow down the half a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, head practically split in half as it tried to battle between easy and interested and Arthur was blowing his whistle again.

“Are you two done?” Arthur snapped, showering their skates with ice when he stopped next to them. “It’s kind of the first day of the season, we’re trying to set some sort of tone.”

“You’ve got to get a new whistle,” Killian said. “That’s the worst noise I have ever heard.”  
  
“I hope you hear it in your fucking _sleep,_  Jones,” Arthur hissed, accent coming in just a bit stronger when he was particularly frustrated. Or angry. Or pissed. That might have been the best word, half an inch away from Killian’s face with a sneer on his lips and that stupid whistle clutched in between his teeth.

Killian tugged his stick away from Arthur, certain he was just a few seconds away from snapping it over his knee. He lifted his fingers up to his forehead, saluting once and Arthur eyed him with something that vaguely looked like contempt. “Aye aye, coach,” he said, ignoring Robin’s groan and Arthur’s whistle as he skated back over to the blue line.

* * *

They skated sprints until Killian thought his thighs were going to actually burst into flame and his practice jersey had somehow melded into his pads and become some disgusting thing that was more sweat than any actual type of fabric.

He was never going to be able to get that whistle sound of his head – and they got to do it all over again the next day, a jam-packed roster needing to be whittled down by the end of the week. Maybe someday he’d come to terms with the rookies and the call-ups eyeing him during practice like some sort of hockey-playing God, but it wasn’t that day and it wasn’t when he’d barely managed to reign in his desire to punch Will in the face.

“This is absolutely all your fault, you know,” Will said, stepping back into the corner of the locker room with a towel pressed up against his hair, sporting another team-branded t-shirt and sweatpants.

“You have no sense of self-worth at all, do you?” Killian asked, not bothering to look at him when he spoke, too preoccupied with trying to find his phone.

“I’m just saying, if you hadn’t skated like someone who’d never seen ice before, Locksley and I wouldn’t have had to come up with some sort of plan to get you to talk and then we wouldn’t have had that _whatever_ and Arthur would have given the whistle a break.”  
  
“He absolutely would not. He’s obsessed with that thing.”

Will ran the towel back over his head and sank onto the far end of the bench, eyeing Killian with a look of trepidation and he knew the apology was on its way before the words even hit his ears. “It was, you know,” Will started, staring at his sneakers, “done almost with your best interests in mind.”  
  
“Almost?”

“Well your fifth-wheel-ness is just starting to get sad now. Seventh sometimes if Mary Margaret and David show up at the restaurant too.”  
  
“They’re rarely there.”  
  
“Well then count A and Eric as wheels five and six in whatever metaphor we’re running with right now.”  
  
Killian sighed, grabbing his phone off the top shelf of his locker and stuffing it into his pants and this wasn’t really the apology he felt he deserved. He probably should have expected this exact type of apology.

“So is that the explanation of the very obvious set-up or an apology for being a complete dick on the ice today?”  
  
Will shrugged and Robin’s groan was audible from the other side of the locker room – even when he was half involved in a muddled conversation with a rookie whose name was...something. Phillip? It might have been Phillip.

He should probably remember the kid’s name.

And probably stop referring to rookies as kids.

“Either or,” Will said, twisting his hands in the air for good measure and Killian almost smiled. Almost. “Mostly because you’ve been visibly stewing.”  
  
“I have not.”  
  
“You have,” Robin added, rookie on his way out of the locker room with his bag slung over his shoulder.

“What happened to the kid?” Killian asked, nodding towards the now-empty doorway.

“You’re calling them _kid,_ now? Because that just seems like bordering on veteran status and I don’t think you want that mantle during a contract year.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, argument on the tip of his tongue, but Will was too quick – and far too sarcastic for his own good. “No, no, he’s embracing grizzled veteran now. That’s why he didn’t ask any of us for the Swan girl’s number.”  
  
“The Swan girl?”  
  
“You were calling her _Swan_ all night,” Will said, as if that was somehow important. It might have been. Probably not. It wasn’t as if Killian had considered that at all during the week he hadn’t spent thinking about Emma Swan. “How come you didn’t?”  
  
“Didn’t what?”  
  
“Ask one of us for her number? Or ask her for her number yourself?”  
  
And he was half a breath away from his own vaguely sarcastic response and mumbled insult and telling Will where to put his questions and interference when his phone rang and maybe that was some sort of of sign – Killian would take it even if it wasn’t a sign.

“Small miracles,” he muttered, tugging his phone out of his pocket and swiping his thumb across the screen without even really looking at the name there.

“I want some kind of explanation,” Liam said as soon as the phone connected.

“I haven’t even said a word,” Killian sighed, leaning back against the tiny space in between lockers and resisting the urge to actually groan into the phone. “Shouldn’t you be picking up the twins or something? It’s almost five o’clock.”  
  
“There are time zones, little brother, those do affect things like this.”  
  
“Younger brother,” Killian mumbled, almost entirely out of habit and Liam laughed loudly in the phone – loud enough that both Robin and Will glanced up knowingly.

“Is that our fearless leader?” Will shouted and Liam was the one who groaned into the phone.

“Tell Scarlet I haven’t been anyone’s fearless leader in at least six years, he needs to come up with another title.”  
  
“He’s not that creative,” Killian said, earning a not-quite-subtle punch in his shoulder. “Hey, what the fuck, Scarlet?”  
  
“That’s just rude,” Will answered, whispering not quite sounding like whispering and Liam was bordering somewhere close to hysterical now.

“Yeah, well, you’ve been an ass all day, so you can deal with rude.”  
  
Liam clicked his tongue and the laughter was still there on the edge of his voice. “Ah, so he went through with the plan, then.”  
  
“What?” Killian snapped, glaring at both Robin and Will and they both had their hands up in the air in mock surrender.

“Did he not?” Liam asked.

“Well, no, yeah, he did, but I just can’t quite believe he told you about it.”  
  
“He didn’t. Locksley did.” Killian kicked the end of the bench in front of him – doing more damage to his toe than the inexplicably ancient wood – and muttered a few words under his breath that made Liam click his tongue again. “Don’t let Gina hear that, she’ll never let you around Rol again.”  
  
“Listen, I am the best authority figure that kid’s got aside from Locksley. He’s not getting anything out of Scarlet.”  
  
“Oi,” Will shouted, moving so quickly he nearly fell off his perch on the bench. “Tell Liam that the plan didn’t work because his stupid younger brother is the most stubborn person in the entire world.”  
  
“He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Liam muttered and Killian wished Will would move – for several different reasons, but mostly so he had a bench to collapse on once the inevitable over-the-phone inquisition began.

He glanced towards both of them – each sporting team-branded apparel now and Killian couldn’t even make fun of them with his own blue t-shirt and gym shorts with a shield emblem and, well, they got a lot of free clothes. He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and Robin understood before Will did, slinging his arm around the defender’s shoulders and tugging him towards the locker room door with the promise that they’d _wait outside._

“You get rid of them then?” Liam asked after a few more moments.

Killian huffed slightly when he did finally collapse, stretching his legs out in front of him and it was an almost-dangerous balancing act when he laid flat on his back across the bench. “Alright, ask,” he said, sounding as if he was getting ready for the guillotine or something equally dramatic. It was at least enough to get Liam to laugh again.

“Well, I know bits and pieces already.”  
  
“This is the worst team in the world.”  
  
“No it isn’t,” Liam said and something in his voice was vaguely wistful and Killian sat back up, that same feeling of guilt settling in the pit of his stomach whenever they talked about the team and the sport and didn’t talk about any of the rest of it.

He felt guilty almost constantly.

Killian groaned and ran a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his cheeks and his neck cracked again when he twisted it back and forth. “You should get A to look at that,” Liam said, laughter back in his voice.

“We’ve got PT tomorrow, twice a week is more than enough to hear about all the things I’m doing wrong with my life.”  
  
“She’s worried.”  
  
“She’s not my mother.”  
  
“I’m not sure she’s realized that yet.”  
  
“What exactly did Locksley tell you?”  
  
Liam didn’t answer immediately and that in and of itself was troubling – if there was one thing Liam Jones was good at, aside from hockey, it was coming up with immediate and occasionally scathing opinions on his younger brother’s life.

He should have answered before the question was entirely out of Killian’s mouth.

“Liam,” he prompted. “How much did Locksley tell you?”  
  
“There may have been a rather detailed description of you and a girl and several hours spent huddled together in the corner of the restaurant and how you’ve been stewing about it for the last week and that it looked…”  
  
He trailed off and Killian almost fell back onto the bench, realization sinking into every single one of his pores and his vaguely overworked muscles. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
“I didn’t actually say anything.”  
  
“He said it looked like before, didn’t he? That’s what he told you?”

“No, he used her actual name, because unlike you, Locksley isn’t terrified of a ghost.”

Killian took a deep breath – in through his nose, out through his mouth – and it was mostly so he didn’t start screaming at his brother over the phone and several timezones, all feelings of guilt transitioning into something more resembling rage.

It had happened suddenly – a crash and a lot of lights and then more lights and an update from a doctor that might have actually been a med student, doling out information only when Killian was begging and the doctor, med student, _whatever,_ had realized who he was.

Dead.

On impact.

A crash and lights and with one word, it felt as if the light had gone out from Killian’s entire life and it was just as melodramatic now as it had been then and it hurt just as much. She’d been everything – and then some.

She’d made it easier, made everything _simple_ and uncomplicated and straight to the point. Killian loved her, completely and selfishly and maybe even more than he loved the game and that was saying something.

The world, however, didn’t seem to care.

A single moment and a turn of the wheel and they’d been going over the speed limit and, just like that, she was gone and he tried not to even think about her name. He poured all his energy into the comeback and the game and that was all the love he had room for in his life, even if he was the awkward fifth or, sometimes, seventh wheel on this team of people who were far too involved in each other’s lives.

It was a role he was used to, after all – although when he went to Colorado he, at least, had the twins and there was something to be said for falling into the role of _cool_ adult. Even if Elsa would have rolled her eyes at the very idea.

“That was kind of a step too far wasn’t it?” Liam asked after what felt like hours of silence and rehashing memories that made Killian feel guilty and disappointed all over again. “Make sure you tell Scarlet someone one-up’ed him for asshole of the day.”  
  
Killian laughed under his breath and the rage ebbed just a bit and his toes thanked him because he wasn’t sure they could stand up to another round of kicking at the bench. He had to skate again tomorrow. “I”m sure he’ll appreciate that.”  
  
“There was an apology mixed somewhere in there too.”  
  
“Yeah, I picked up on that.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“And, just think, you were the one going on about my language. Don’t let El hear you say that around the twins, she’ll have your head.”  
  
“That would require me to be around the twins currently,” Liam pointed out, probably doing that thing where he traced his finger through the air when he was trying to _prove something._  “Which, you know, I’m not.”  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“Coming back from the Av’s office. Had to do that promo thing today. They wanted it done before the season started.”  
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat and Liam made _that_ noise, the one that sounded exactly the way an older brother should sound when he was trying to make sure his younger brother didn’t feel guilty about ending his career ten seasons too early.

Liam groaned and a door slammed in the background and he must have just gotten home – to an actual _house_ , they lived in an actual house, like an actual family with a dog and a backyard and they’d talked about building the twins a swing set before Elsa had gone on a five-minute rant about how those were, decidedly, unsafe. And it was all so real and domestic and _perfect_ and Killian still wasn’t jealous.

Absolutely not.

And he didn’t want to ask someone, anyone, for Emma Swan’s number.

“That’s not your fault Killian,” Liam said. It was the same sentence he’d said for the last five and a half years, promises that it was fine and it wasn’t his fault and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was right.

The other half of his mind didn’t really care.

“When did Locksley talk to you?” Killian asked, determined to change the subject as quickly as possible. And if Liam picked up on that, he didn’t actually say anything, just hummed in the back of his throat like he was trying to pinpoint the exact hour the conversation had taken place.

“Ummm, two days ago, maybe?”  
  
“Two days? You waited two days?”  
  
“Figured if something had actually happened you’d probably say something.”  
  
“I didn’t even tell you about her to begin with.”  
  
“That’s true,” Liam agreed. “Why?”  
  
Killian shrugged – fully aware that he was the only person in the locker room – and it was a bigger answer than he was willing to dive into in the middle of the locker room, but there was a reason he’d been stewing and just a few moments away from punching Will in the face in practice.

Emma Swan had muttered a few sentences and announced that she knew they were being set-up by their friends and her eyes were ridiculously green and that dress had been ridiculously red and it had all come together to settle underneath Killian’s skin in a way he couldn’t quite remember anything having done in...well not since it had before.

“What’s she like, then?” Liam asked, shaking Killian out of whatever thought process he’d been blindly stumbling down.

“Who?”  
  
“Killian, the girl, the one Locksley is vaguely convinced you’re already half in love with.”  
  
“No one is in love with anyone,” Killian argued. “It was a set-up on both angles. She works for the team.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, I’m not doing that again.”  
  
“You’ve never done that before.”  
  
Killian groaned, hand back over his eyes and there was a headache forming just behind his right eye – a mix of Arthur's whistle and Liam’s questions and his linemates interference all converging into one ball of jumbled frustration.

“Close enough,” he muttered and he believed it, even if he could hear Liam’s sigh on the other side of the country.

“No, it’s not, Killian. It’s not. You don’t get to lump things into categories just to make yourself feel even more guilty than you normally do. That’s idiotic.”  
  
“Insulting.”  
  
“And true. Now, come on, what’s she like?”  
  
“I don’t know, Liam, she’s nice. She didn’t want the party and her friend from college knows A somehow and I knew her friends and...she didn’t want the party.”  
  
“You mentioned that part twice.”  
  
“That’s about all I know.”  
  
It wasn’t – he knew a lot more, knew that she didn’t even try to argue when he started giving her water instead of white wine and that her smile stuttered just a bit when Mary Margaret leaned against David’s side and that she crossed her feet at the ankles to make sure she kept her balance on that bar stool.

But all of that would have sounded vaguely idiotic if he said it out loud and they’d talked for a few hours before a week of radio silence.

And she hadn’t tried to get his number either.

It was fine.

It was _fine._

“You’re a giant liar who is still as terrible at lying as he was when he was thirteen,” Liam said, the sound of the door swinging open in the background again and high-pitched voices that, even over the phone, were clearly hopped up on sugar.

“Go take care of your kids, you’re an awful father,” Killian muttered and he couldn’t even get _any_ malice in his voice.

“I’m saving you here, if they figure out I’m talking to you, they’ll charm you into playing a game and you’re way too much of a pushover to actually say no.”  
  
“Ass.”  
  
“Language,” Liam laughed. “Hey, let me know before you get married, ok?”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
The line clicked and the headache was still there and Killian was still as much a mix of frustration and guilt and something that felt strangely like _want_ as he had been before practice and the hour after Emma Swan had walked out of the restaurant.

Jeez.

He was a mess.

And he needed to get home.

He swung his legs back of the bench, pushing up in one, quick motion and grabbed his bag out of his locker, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he moved. He’d been so focused on his steps and whatever retort he was going to shoot back at Will as soon as he got into the lobby that he almost didn’t notice the other human being in front of him when he rounded the corner towards the front doors of the practice facility.

She stepped back before Killian could collide with her completely and this time the dress wasn’t a dress, but black pants and a jacket and a shirt that looked like it had flowers on it. Killian couldn’t really tell, he was trying not to stare.

And breathe.

He was also trying to breathe.

“Killian,” Emma said and it sounded a bit like a gasp and that wasn’t doing much to help his ability to breathe. “What are you doing here?”  
  
He blinked once and ran his hand through his hair. It was definitely flowers. There were flowers all over her shirt. “Practice. It’s the first day of the season.”  
  
“Right, right, I just thought everybody left.”  
  
“If they left without me, I will actually kill them,” Killian muttered, glancing over her shoulder to find Robin and Will leaning against the front doors, respective bag at their respective feet and matching grins on their faces.

“No one left without anyone, Cap, relax,” Will shouted. Killian rolled his eyes, pressing his lips together tightly and Emma might have actually smiled, eyebrows lifted as she rocked back on her heels. “Even if some of us are taking a ridiculously long time and now we’re not going to get back to the city for like an hour.”  
  
“Alright, alright. Calm down. I’ll be right there.”

“Looks like you’ve got a cab to catch,” Emma said and it was definitely a smile. He absolutely wasn’t breathing, hand still stuck in his hair.

“It’s probably a town car,” he muttered. Idiot.

Emma hummed in agreement, but the smile didn’t waver as she shifted a pile of papers in her hands, balancing them against her hip. “That’s probably true.”  
  
“What are you doing here, Swan? Do you...do you need a ride back to the city? We can kick Scarlet out of the car.”  
  
“Ass,” Will shouted, halfway out the door as he kicked his bag. “Maybe we will leave without you now.”

“He won’t," Killian muttered and Robin did something ridiculous with his face – a flashing neon sign that practically announced he _knew_ what was going on.

“I don’t,” Emma said. He didn’t imagine her moving towards him, did he? No. He didn’t. Right? Killian Jones, captain of the New York _fucking_ Rangers, flirting at the practice facility like some kind of middle school jock.

Idiot.

“Need a ride, that is,” she continued, brushing her hair off her shoulders with her only free hand. “Rubes is supposed to send a car in forty-five minutes. Thanks for the offer though.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Emma’s eyes darted across his face when he didn’t say anything else and he knew he’d fallen back on the smirk and the quirked eyebrow and, well, that _always_ worked. It didn’t work on her. Of course not.

This couldn’t just be easy.

“They showed me around,” Emma said, smile widening just a bit when she noticed his eyes widen. “Figured I should see the place before we do our thing in a week.”  
  
“Our thing in a week?”  
  
“Youth event. Anti-concussions. Learn how to skate. You should probably mark it down now, you’ll have to be there.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“You’re the captain aren’t you?”  
  
“Unless this was some sort of long con.”  
  
She laughed – a real, genuine laugh and maybe this wasn’t going as badly as he thought it was. “Then I’m afraid you’ll probably be required to attend. With that slightly fancy jersey on as well.”  
  
Killian hummed, lower lip sticking out just a bit as he pretended to consider his options – like there was some sort of option beside the resounding _yes, of course_ practically ricocheting off the corners of his brain. “I think I can do that,” he said.  
  
“Consider this your personal invitation to come and impress kids who’ve never seen ice before.”  
  
“Consider this me accepting your invitation then, Swan.”  
  
The smile widened and the laugh was a bit quieter, but just as real as she shifted the papers again. “You don’t think you’ll be busy then?”  
  
“I’ll figure it out.”

Emma made a face and it almost looked impressed and Killian could hear Will screaming for him from the other side of the door. “They’re going to leave without you,” she said softly.

“Not if they want to keep their spots on first line.”  
  
“You’re an evil captain. Lording your power over those beneath you.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh and he’d dropped his fingers out of his hair at some point, arms crossed lightly over his chest. Her eyes hadn’t fallen on his hand once. “You have a phone, Swan?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“A phone.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“In case there’s some sort of community relations emergency or something changes or you, you know, need someone to get you into Eric’s restaurant in the next few days.”  
  
He was rambling and it wasn’t really planned and he was _absolutely_ still trying to fall back on the smirk and the bravado, but Emma’s eyebrow quirked up and the smile hadn’t fallen off her face yet. She shifted the papers again, twisting her arm back behind her to grab a phone out of her back pocket, tossing it in Killian’s direction.  
  
He caught it.

“Was that some sort of trust test, Swan?” he asked, clicking on contacts and typing in his name and his number.

“That’s a work phone, not my actual phone.”  
  
“And you’re willing to just gamble with work electronics like that?”  
  
She shrugged and made a dismissive noise. “You’re an athlete, you should be able to catch something at a moment’s notice.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” Killian said, handing her back the phone and her fingers brushed over his when she grabbed it. He wouldn’t think about that for the next week. “Let me know if you need any community relations.”  
  
The smile faltered and he was an _idiot_ and Emma nodded once, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. “Sure,” she said. “Let me know if they rob you of your captaincy at the end of this long con. I’ll have to change the posters.”  
  
And she didn’t say anything else, grin on her face and hair moving over her shoulders when she turned on her heels, leaving Killian standing there slack jawed and a bit stunned as Will shouted for him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the season! This is the first time I've ever kept Liam alive, and there are, approximately, 800 characters in this story, so things are going to get a little complex. 
> 
> I am just in a constant state of stunned by how nice all of you are. It blows my mind. Thank you so much for every click, comment and kudos and for your excitement about this story. And a very particular thank you to @laurenorder who is the greatest human and edits stories through hurricanes. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

She’d come up with the idea at some point in the middle of the night – somewhere between flipping onto her back and trying not to break her neck from leaning against the arm of Mary Margaret’s couch and resisting the urge to groan so loudly she’d _definitely_ wake up both Mary Margaret and David because this was, hands down, the the most uncomfortable couch in the entire world.

It felt a bit like lightning.

Or whatever metaphor she wanted to use that didn’t sound quite as ridiculous as saying an idea felt like lightning.

It did though – striking her immediately and intently and it made _sense_ and it was the perfect idea to get things rolling. That was another metaphor.

Actually, maybe that was a cliché.

It didn’t matter. Ruby loved the idea and Emma wasn’t sure why she’d even asked Ruby for permission, calling as soon as was socially acceptable on a Saturday morning after a surprise party that had resulted in them all drinking far too much wine than they probably should have.

Except Killian.

And probably the rest of the team. There were rules – or something.

Emma didn’t care about the rest of the team. Not that she cared about Killian either. That would have been ridiculous. She wasn’t smiling because of Killian Jones – or how he didn’t try and brush her fingers off his knee or shy away from telling her about his hand or how he got this very specific look on his face, eyes going wide and bright and _blue,_ when he talked about winning a Cup.

And she absolutely didn’t think about him for a week after the surprise party that wasn’t really a surprise party, no matter what Mary Margaret said. She had an event to plan and a team schedule to memorize because if they were going to do this, then they needed the team there and guys willing to skate and explain helmets and how _different_ the sport was than before and how safe it was.

It was almost true – hockey, by its very definition, wasn’t safe. Any sport that required players to actually tie blades to their feet and encouraged them to hit each others legs with sticks wasn’t safe.

And Emma had witnessed her fair share of injuries in the past – concussions and broken limbs and a variety of dislocated joints and that one time Graham needed a dozen stitches after the jackass from Columbus had managed to work his skate across his wrist when they both went careening into the boards.

That one had terrified her the most.

The league was pretty adamant about concussions though and concussion safety and it was the _perfect_ idea for Emma’s first foray into community relations – Ruby loved it, Zelena loved it, everyone loved it – a Sunday afternoon at the practice facility in Tarrytown and a skating safety clinic and explanations about how far the Rangers had come in making sure their players brains were, relatively, safe.

So, for the first week of the season, Emma found herself in a town car provided by Ruby because no one had actually given her that number yet, schlepping upstate every day as she tried to figure out the logistics of all of this.

And get posters with Killian Jones’ face on them – which didn’t bother her at all because she hadn’t spent the last week thinking about him and hadn’t stared at the number he’d left on her work phone for the last three days wondering if she could come up with some sort of excuse to call or text that didn’t have anything to do with community relations.

She couldn’t.

And Emma hadn’t actually given him her number. The ball, or puck, _God,_ was effectively in her court. Or her offensive zone? This metaphor was stupid.

“Emma?”

She snapped around, nearly tripping over her heels as she pushed off of the doorframe she was leaning against, to find Merida Mathan standing in front of her, a walkie-talkie in one hand and a helmet in the other.

Emma hadn’t explicitly asked for an assistant, but Ruby had been adamant and she _was_ in charge of a whole department and, well, Merida was like some sort of red-headed hurricane who seemed pre-programmed to read minds and make things as easy as they possibly could have been almost two weeks into a new job on the other side of the country with a team that was inexplicably connected.

“Hey, Mer,” Emma said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She nodded towards the walkie-talkie and it looked like it was, at least, two decades old. “What’s that?”  
  
“Oh, that’s for you,” she answered, pushing the electronic towards Emma. “To make sure the guys know when to come out of the locker room. The kids are here too, by the way.”  
  
“When?”  
  
Merida shrugged and Emma tried to pull her phone out of her pocket, certain Mary Margaret would have texted her when the class got there – she’d kind of cheated and the kids weren’t from Tarrytown and she’d used Mary Margaret’s fourth-grade class list to fill the seats, but that seemed to be par for the course for this team and...whatever. Emma didn’t need an excuse. Mary Margaret said the kids were thrilled.

She tapped the home button impatiently and she’d been right – there were four text messages and the last one just said “HERE” ten times in a row.

“Where are the kids?” Emma asked, ignoring the texts as she tried to get the walkie-talkie to stop buzzing in her hand.

“Waiting in the lobby. Mary Margaret and David are down there too.”

Emma groaned – and it actually sounded a bit like a growl, frustration seeping through every inch of her – as she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and hooked the walkie-talkie into a belt loop.  “Alright,” she said and she wished it didn’t sound like she was actually trying to psych herself up.

It was good. This was a good idea. Everyone loved it. The kids were thrilled. It was going to be great.

She should have called Killian Jones.

“Let’s go get the kids into skates and helmets and all, then we’ll get them on the ice and we’ll bring the guys out,” Emma continued. “And then they’ll all freak out and it’ll be painfully adorable and, shit, is Mulan here?”  
  
Merida smiled knowingly, as if she were waiting for Emma to worry about the whereabouts of the Garden’s official photographer. “Has been for about an hour. She’s been taking pictures of the guys I think.”  
  
Emma huffed out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and nodded once. “Good, good, good.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We need to go get the kids.”  
  
“Right, right, let’s do that.”  
  
There were forty kids. Forty screaming, over-excited kids standing in the New York Rangers practice facility lobby with smiles on their faces and some of them might have been jumping up and down and Emma felt her jaw drop open.

Merida muttered something and Emma didn’t hear her over the dull roar of the fourth-grade crowd in front of her and she was going to break Mary Margaret’s impossibly uncomfortable couch because this wasn’t what they’d agreed on.

At all.

There were supposed to be twenty kids. At most. Twenty kids who could all get skates and a player for every two kids and there were forty kids.

“We need to find more skates,” Emma mumbled, not taking her eyes away from the crowd. Mary Margaret was already walking towards her, a repentant look on her face and David was half a step behind her, staring at Emma like he was practically willing her not to yell in the middle of the lobby.

In front of forty kids.

“Yeah,” Merida said softly, twisting a particularly well-formed curl around her finger. “Ok, yeah, more skates.”  
  
“Don’t tell the guys there’s more kids.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
Merida practically sprinted down the hallway towards the equipment room and Kristoff was going to kill them – they hadn’t planned for an extra twenty kids. God, what was this going to do to the ice? Was it going to mess up the ice?

Emma had no idea how that worked.

Mary Margaret was in front of her half a moment later, that same nervous look on her face and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I have an explanation,” she said, tugging on Emma’s shirt sleeve.

“Don’t,” Emma sighed and she wasn’t nearly as mad as she probably should have been. In fact, she probably should have expected this. “I know why you did it.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Let me guess, your kids were thrilled and could only talk about this for the last week and that led to more kids wanting to go and you had space on the bus and you couldn’t say no because, well, they’re _kids_ and so, here we are, twenty kids over budget and now we’ll have to have four to a player.”

David laughed softly and Mary Margaret blushed and Emma just raised her eyebrows. “Am I close?”

“Painfully,” David muttered.

Mary Margaret huffed, crossing her arms lightly and she might have actually stamped both her feet at the same time, a little jump-stop that was so _her,_ it was almost painful. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “Pretty spot on.”  
  
“It’s ok, Reese’s. They’re a professional hockey team, they’ve got to have more skates somewhere. Mer’s on it and Kristoff will figure it out and it’s going to be fine.”  
  
“It’s just a really good idea and the kids were super excited and I couldn’t…”  
  
“Say no, yeah, I got that.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be. You’re just almost _too_ nice, you know that.”  
  
Mary Margaret scrunched her nose and David slung his arm around her shoulders, tugging her against his side and kissing the top of her head and Emma wasn’t jealous. She _wasn’t._ That would have been ridiculous.

Once upon a time, Emma probably would have been, would have let that jealousy seep into her very center and take up residence in her heart or her soul or something equally absurd, but, at this point, she was absolutely convinced that sort of thing just didn’t happen for her.

At one point Emma believed in everything and wanted everything and it had gotten her heart broken – twice.

It just seemed like testing fate to try and play those odds again.

And that might have been why she’d never called Killian Jones.

Because she’d done this –  _twice_ – and it hadn’t ended well either time and then it had, somehow, managed to get even worse in LA.

Neal showed up in her office the same day she’d gotten the news she was, officially, out, a box resting on his hip and an _understanding_ smile on his face that made her want to punch him just a bit and he tried to explain how this wasn’t really his fault.

He wasn’t taking her job.

He’d just ended up in Los Angeles by some sort of coincidence that absolutely _wasn’t_ the fact that he’d known Gold for years and was part of his _group_ that was taking over front office jobs and, you know, it wasn’t his fault.

Of course not.

Asshole.  
  
Bastard asshole.

Emma met Neal Cassidy in Vancouver – he’d given her his business card and flashed her a smile that left her just a bit more breathless than anything else ever had and he’d smiled and he was good at his job. Not good enough that he deserved her office in LA, but that was beside the point. He was working in Nashville at the time, director of communications for the Preds and the long distance thing hadn’t been easy at first, but he took her out to dinner whenever he was in Vancouver or she was in Tennessee and they made it work.

It was worth it.

Until it wasn’t and Emma got promoted and he complained when she couldn’t get out of the Rogers before midnight on game days and, eventually, he just stopped calling. She saw he got engaged and he hadn’t bothered saying anything, not that she really expected him to, but it was just...it was just.

Emma had loved him – believed all the promises and the plans and he’d looked at her like she mattered and she’d always wanted that.

She wanted him.

He didn’t, however, seem to want her. He just wanted her job and now he had her office in LA and that beautiful desk she’d picked out herself when she’d gotten the title and those windows that looked out perfectly on the Staples Center parking lot.

Maybe she didn’t miss those windows. Or the Staples Center. Or even Neal.

She’d tried again, did her best to believe and not walk away from the smiles and the flirting – supported, as always, by Mary Margaret’s seemingly endless belief in the very idea of true love – and Walsh was another mistake.

He’d been _a fan_ – sitting in the Starbucks just outside the Staples Center on the same afternoon Emma walked in, desperately looking for caffeine. They started talking and that wasn’t really in Emma’s wheelhouse of relationships because she didn’t just _talk_ to people. She didn’t just trust people.

She talked and she trusted Walsh – at first.

They went out to dinner three times and he was...persistent. That was probably the best word for it. He wanted a lot and Emma didn’t and when he realized that, he’d told her he never really loved her anyway and no one probably ever would and she didn’t even cry because, somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she almost sort of agreed with him.

She didn’t date anybody else while she was in LA. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d ever really been dating Walsh. She was fine as is. The rules were comfortable. They made sense. The rules kept things on track – and kept her, decidedly, on the outside of _true love_ looking in.

Emma wasn’t jealous of everyone else who, apparently, had it figured out. She wasn’t – and that seemed like a good thing because everyone on this entire team appeared to have it figured out. She had other things to deal with anyway.

Namely finding skates for twenty kids she wasn’t expecting to see in Tarrytown that afternoon.

The walkie-talkie on her hip buzzed and it sounded like someone was actually trying to talk. Emma tugged it off her belt loop, glancing at Mary Margaret and David who both looked entertained at the fact that the New York Rangers were still using walkie-talkies.

She twisted the top, trying to get rid of _some_ of the static and held it up to her ear. “Swan,” a voice said and Emma bit her lip tightly when she realized who it was.

She probably should have called him.

“Uh, yeah,” Emma muttered, ignoring the smile she could see on Mary Margaret’s face. “They gave you the walkie-talkie?”  
  
Killian laughed and Emma was going to make her lip bleed. “Don’t sound so surprised, love. I’m the captain of this team, they’re willing to trust me with things as serious as who gets to talk to you on the walkie-talkie.”  
  
“And he absolutely refused to let anyone else touch it,” Will added, earning a groan out of Killian and something that sounded like a smack on a shoulder or the back of his head.

“That’s not true at all,” Killian said quickly, but the bravado was gone just a bit. Emma was smiling. Mary Margaret looked like she’d just watched a particularly beautiful sunrise.

“Whatever you say, Jones,” Emma laughed. Good, that was good, stick to last names and keep him on the literal and metaphorical ice and today was going to be fine. “Listen, uh, we’ve hit kind of a snag here so we’re running a bit behind schedule.”  
  
“A snag?”  
  
“Like a barely even noticeable bump in the road.”  
  
“What happened?” he asked, concern obvious in his voice. That was ridiculous. He didn’t have anything to be concerned about, particularly not at an event Emma had planned and more or less forced him and nine other players to attend.

“Nothing.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Jones.”  
  
“Open book,” Killian muttered and Emma rolled her eyes.

“You can’t even see me.”  
  
“Even so.”  
  
She sighed, shoulders sagging just a bit and this was far too easy – talking to him was far too easy. Fuck. “There are a few more kids here than we planned for.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mary Margaret whispered and Emma waved her off, eyebrows drawn low at the silence coming from the other end of the walkie-talkie.

“How many more kids?” Killian asked.

“Twenty?” Emma mumbled.

“Twenty? Did you say twenty?”  
  
“Mary Margaret can’t say no to kids excited to meet their heroes or something.”  
  
Killian scoffed and somehow she knew he had his hand in his hair. Huh. “Was that a compliment, Swan?”  
  
“Don’t let it go to your head.”  
  
She waited for the response, the teasing through the walkie-talkie and her smile wavered just a bit when it didn’t come immediately. “Em,” David said, nudging her shoulder and she spun on the spot to find a fully-uniformed Killian Jones standing at the far end of the hall.

Emma shook her head once, trying to school her features and she knew it didn’t work as soon as she saw the smile on his face, leaning against the wall as he somehow managed to balance on one skate, his other foot crossed at his ankle.

She’d only ever seen him post-practice and those hours spent huddled at the end of the bar in Eric’s restaurant and he wore both looks well – slightly wet hair and team-branded merchandise looking just as good as the collared shirt and fitted pants and neither one of them was as good as Killian Jones in full uniform.

Or, at least, practice uniform.

It was all very blue and red and the pads somehow made him look even more commanding or maybe that was just the “C” on his shoulder.

Fuck.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked, pushing him farther back down the hallway so the kids didn’t actually see him. “You’re going to incite some sort of fourth-grade riot.”  
  
He glanced down at her hand, still pressed against his jersey, and he tugged her fingers away from the fabric, squeezing them once for good measure before letting them drop back to their side. “I don’t know if you’ve ever encountered a fourth grader, Swan, but I hardly think they’re capable of rioting. Anyway, I have an idea.”

“What?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder when Merida ran back into the lobby, shaking her head. There weren’t enough skates. She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly and dramatically and Mary Margaret’s sigh was audible from a few yards away.

“We’re going to split up.”  
  
“What?”

“Split up. And by us, I mean the actual professional hockey players. Send some of the kids out onto the ice, give ‘em the skates you’ve got and then Scarlet, Locksley and I can stay in here and answer questions or something.”  
  
“Questions?”  
  
“They’re in fourth grade, Swan, I’m sure they’ve got questions.”  
  
Emma pursed her lips, considering the suggestion and wondering how he’d managed to come up with this entire plan in the five-second span since she’d informed him that there were too many kids. She didn’t really care. This could work.

“You’d do that?” Emma asked.

Killian shrugged. “Sure, why not?”  
  
“Well you’re already dressed.”  
  
“That hardly means I’ve lost my motor skills. Anyway it’s probably good I’m dressed, something about visual learning.”  
  
She laughed and he did something with his eyebrows that, in turn, did something very specific to Emma’s pulse and she nodded. “You know I thought about a Q&A thing, something about explaining how to avoid concussions or safety. I didn’t think we’d have enough time.”  
  
“We just apparently don’t have enough skates.”

“How did you know that? I didn’t actually say anything about skates.”  
  
“Kristoff came barreling into the locker room about five seconds before I walkie-talkie’d you.”

“Is that actually a verb?”  
  
“You’d have to ask Mary Margaret.”

He moved his eyebrows again and his eyes definitely did match the uniform and Emma had lost her train of thought. “Ok,” she said slowly, tapping out a rhythm against her thigh. This could work. “So you three take, what, half? Can you talk to twenty kids at once?”  
  
“Is that a question about my ability to talk, to make sure twenty kids aren’t bored while I talk or somewhere in between?”  
  
“I just don’t want to overwhelm. I mean, this is nice, you’re being nice.”  
  
Killian tilted his head at her and the smile looked a bit more confused than it had been, eyebrows pulling low until there was a tiny crease in between them. “Is that surprising?”

“No,” Emma said. “I don’t really know.”  
  
He smiled wider at her and it looked as genuine as it had in Eric’s restaurant. “I’m almost always nice,” he promised. “Some would go so far as to say a gentleman.”  
  
Emma made a face, trying to look serious and it didn’t really work when he kept smiling at her like that. Business. Back to business and planning and keeping forty kids occupied for the next three hours. “You’ll get twenty kids,” she said and Killian blinked once at her tone before nodding. “Talk about safety and concussions and how you shouldn’t be cross-checking anyone in the head or anything like that.”  
  
“I think we can handle that, love.”  
  
“Not your love,” Emma said quickly before completely losing her mind and reaching out to rest her hand on his. “And thanks.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
She nodded again and he smiled and Merida coughed pointedly behind them as Emma spun back towards her assistant. “You want to get started, Em?” she asked, some sort of knowing smile on her face.

“Yeah, for sure. I guess we’ll just split them up by class? Where’s Reese’s?  
  
“Reese’s?  
  
“Mary Margaret,” Killian supplied, leaning towards Merida who didn’t appear particularly taken aback to see a fully-dressed NHL player in front of her.

“I don’t get it.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, determined to ignore the smirk she was all but certain was etched onto Killian’s face. “Reese’s,” she shouted and Mary Margaret practically appeared in front of her, ready and willing to do whatever was necessary.

She felt guilty about bringing twenty extra kids.

“Hey, Killian,” she said, nodding towards him, still leaning up against the wall and balanced on one skate blade.

“Mary Margaret,” he muttered. “I see you’ve brought more kids.”  
  
“They were excited to meet you.” He might have actually blushed and Emma might have have bit her lip again to stop herself from doing something ridiculous like _giggling_ at Killian Jones blushing over the mere idea that fourth graders wanted to meet him.

“We’re going to split the kids up,” Emma said, glancing at Mary Margaret. “Just go down the line of class or whatever. Half with the first line and then the other half with the skates we apparently do have and then we’ll swap.”  
  
“The first line?”  
  
“Jones, Scarlet and Locksley.”  
  
Mary Margaret raised her eyebrows at Emma’s new policy of using last names only, but didn’t actually say anything, just hummed in agreement. “Sure. That sounds like a good plan.”  
  
“Told you, Swan,” Killian mumbled and she glanced back at him to find he absolutely was smirking, one side of his mouth tugged up.

“Genius,” she said and this felt a bit like teasing and a whole lot like flirting and it needed to stop. It shouldn’t have ever really started. “Mer,” Emma continued, “We have chairs we can put somewhere? For the other group?”  
  
“We’ll put them in the film room.”  
  
“Perfect,” Emma breathed, shoulders sagging just a bit and three pairs of eyes stared at her – each expecting something different and probably all thinking the same thing. “Alright, team, let’s go or break or something. Whatever they say in a huddle.”  
  
Mary Margaret laughed, eyes lightening a bit as she tugged Merida back to a group of still-screaming fourth graders. Killian hadn’t moved. “You need to work on your motivational speeches,” he said.

“That’s why you’re here. Isn’t that part of the captaincy requirements?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of.”  
  
“Shame.”  
  
He chuckled under his breath and ran his hand through his hair as two more fully dressed hockey players walked out of the locker room. “Is there a plan then?” Robin asked, coming up just behind Killian.

“Film room,” Killian said quickly and they didn’t even ask anymore questions, just nodded in unison and walked towards the other side of the hallway, waving when the forty fourth graders collectively lost their minds at the sight of them.

Emma whistled softly and Killian quirked an eyebrow at her. “That was just impressive.”  
  
“They’ll listen. It’ll be fine, Swan. The kids may even learn something.”  
  
“I think that’s kind of the point.”  
  
“Then we’ll make sure they do.”  
  
“Thanks,” she said again, tongue darting over her suddenly dry lips and she hadn’t realized they were alone until she felt herself leaning towards him out of instinct. Huh.

“My pleasure.” And it sounded genuine and real and this was absolutely flirting. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep the walkie-talkie on. In case there’s a change in plans?”  
  
Emma nodded, not quite sure what else to say and he was gone half a second later, smiling and waving and every single one of those forty fourth graders came to see Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers.

She might have too.

* * *

An extra twenty fourth graders, it appeared, were not enough to ruin anything.

It all went according to plan and dangerously close to perfect and, nearly three hours later, Emma was leaning in the doorway of the film room, arms crossed lightly over her chest and weight resting on her toes and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

He was good at this.

Of course he was good at this.

He scored at least twenty goals a season, of course Killian Jones was good at explaining hockey to eight and nine year olds.

The twenty kids were a rapt audience in front of the New York Rangers first line – most of them sporting their own team-branded merchandise, legs crossed and heads resting on hands and Emma was half convinced none of them even blinked in the five minutes she’d spent watching them.

And she was certain Killian knew she was there, was certain his eyes had darted towards her more than once in those last five minutes, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. It had all gone perfectly, even the transition between groups had gone flawlessly, Mary Margaret a picture of efficiency as kids were helped out of skates and then back into skates and Killian had used the walkie talkie again – muttering an encouragement into it during the middle part of the day and even signing off with a quick _10-4_ that made Emma roll her eyes.

It also made her stomach flip, but that wasn’t important.

At all.

“You doing ok?” David asked, making Emma jump and at some point she needed to get better at people just appearing. It usually wasn’t an attack.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugged, sliding down against the opposite wall and sticking his legs out across the hallway floor. Emma eyed him expectantly and he was doing a good job of keeping his face even, but she _knew_ David and she knew when he had something to say. “Alright,” she sighed, pulling herself away from the doorway and a potentially adorable explanation of how to check someone without getting sent to the penalty box. “Go ahead, spill whatever it is you want to tell me.”  
  
“How do you know I have something to tell you?”  
  
“You’re doing that thing with your face,” Emma said, waving her hand in front of her as she sank down next to him.

“So are you.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything with my face.”  
  
“Except smiling.”  
  
Emma groaned, wincing slightly when her head hit up against the wall. “Not you too. Reese’s was bad enough.”  
  
“How come you didn’t call him?”  
  
“What?”  
  
David glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to laugh. He failed. “Robin and Will saw him take your phone, Will told Belle, Belle told Ariel, Ariel told Mary Margaret. Several days ago, by the way.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“I’m not saying you should, for what it's worth, I’m just curious why you didn’t.”  
  
Emma sighed again and closed her eyes, pulling her legs up towards her chest so she could rest her chin on her knees. “I don’t even know him.”  
  
“You know of him.”  
  
“So do forty fourth graders, I don’t think you’d tell any of them to call Killian Jones.”

David scoffed, humming in agreement and Emma wasn’t quite sure where this was going. “I’m kind of surprised he agreed to do this, honestly.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You don’t know?”  
  
“Spit out, David.”  
  
“You know he’s the younger Jones brother. And probably not the better one at playing hockey if we’re all being honest.”  
  
“That’s a rather pointed opinion.”  
  
“Ask Killian, he’d probably tell you the same thing,” David argued. Emma just made a face – he was dragging this story out. “Anyway, what I mean, is this whole concussion thing kind of hits close to home for him. You remember Liam, right?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “I remember he got hurt and he had to retire. He played for the Rangers, got drafted the same year as Killian, right?” She didn’t add that she’d been meaning to look it up, had been meaning to ask someone, anyone, what exactly had happened to Liam Jones, but she’d been far too focused on getting this event finished and figuring out how to act when she had an assistant and trying to actually sleep on Mary Margaret’s couch.

“All true. They didn’t make a big deal of it because it was all pretty horrible and Killian was dangerously close to the whole going off the rails metaphor once it happened.” David glanced back at Emma who raised her eyebrows and tried not to be too frustrated by this conversation. “He did it.”  
  
Emma waited for the rest, the explanation and the drawn out story and none of it came. David stared at her like she should understand what those three words meant and Emma twisted her hands in the air, frustration replaced with confusion and then a mix of both at the same time.

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“Killian’s the one that hurt him.”  
  
“What?”  
  
David made a face and it was big and significant and Emma still didn’t entirely understand what was happening. “Just before the playoffs, third season into their career, took a slapshot just over the blue line on a power play and it...well it hit Liam. Probably should have killed him, but it missed the back of his head and hit just under his ear. Knocked him out. For minutes. And it wasn’t just a concussion, they thought he might not ever be able to talk again. I guess it was touch and go for awhile.

He retired at the end of the season, announced it from the hospital. That was the year before Killian got hurt. I’m not sure if he ever really stopped blaming himself, like I said, Liam was good, really good. He could have taken over the game.”  
  
Emma let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and that wasn’t the story she’d expected, but it did explain a little bit about Killian Jones and the teammates and friends who were so determined to interfere in his life.

They wanted to make sure he was happy.

Because he absolutely blamed himself.

“Oh,” Emma said said softly when she realized she hadn’t actually responded and David lowered his eyebrows, confusion settling on _his_ face.

David opened his mouth to say something, probably ask why she hadn’t been able to come up with a better reaction or another word or why she hadn’t actually called Killian again, but the walkie-talkie still strapped to her belt started making noise before he could.

“Swan,” Killian said and she could practically hear the smile in his voice. “Over and out or something.”  
  
She grabbed the toy – and it was _absolutely_ a toy – and pressed the button on the top. “That’s not how you start a conversation on one of these things.”  
  
“Ah, forgive me, Swan, I don’t think I’ve used one of these in at least two decades, so you’ll have to give me a bit of a learning curve.”

“You know you could just come out here and talk to me.”  
  
“That wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

Emma laughed softly and David was staring wide-eyed at her as if she’d been replaced by a cyborg at some point in their conversation. “What’s going on?”  
  
“The fourth graders are getting a little restless and, apparently, very hungry.”  
  
“Restless and hungry? That doesn’t seem like a very good combination.”  
  
“It is not, which is why I’m signaling out and hoping you’ve got some sort of plan.”  
  
“I actually do and it involves food and sending Mer on some sort of vaguely desperate pizza run half an hour ago.”  
  
“You’re a hero, Swan.”  
  
“Reese’s should be here in a few minutes to bring them down to the cafeteria and make sure none of them rise up in rebellion or anything.”  
  
She appreciated his laugh and the smile she was certain was on his face and when she leaned slightly to her right she found him leaning slightly to his left, eyes meeting over the doorway and she’d been absolutely right – he was practically beaming at her.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Mary Margaret said, running down the hall and she was half out of breath by the time she skidded to a stop in front of Emma and David. Her head darted towards the film room and Killian was still staring and Mary Margaret’s eyes were so wide Emma was almost concerned they were going to fall out of her head.

“Relax, Reese’s,” Emma muttered. “The kids are fine. Where are your designated twenty?”  
  
“In the cafe with Merida, posing for the camera and they’re all going to lose their minds when you give them the shirts.”  
  
Emma shrugged, always quick to deflect anything that even resembled a compliment. “That was probably the easiest part of this whole thing. We’ll get some of the guys to sign them too. Is the food here yet?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. To get your twenty and then eat something.”  
  
“A solid plan.”  
  
“I thought so.” Emma nodded towards the door and Mary Margaret hummed in the back of her throat, falling into _teacher mode_ quickly. She marched into the film room and seized control of the audience and moved them, single-file no less, out into the hallway, leaving a vaguely stunned trio of hockey players in her wake.

David pushed himself up off the floor, throwing a knowing smile Emma’s direction before he followed Mary Margaret and her line of fourth graders down the hallway.

She glanced up when she heard sneakers on the linoleum floor in front of her a few minutes later and she wasn’t sure why she just assumed they’d still be wearing skates – they weren’t on ice. “Hey,” Emma said brightly, smiling up at Will.

“There’s food?” Will asked immediately and Emma nodded slowly, a bit stunned by their quick descent into _snippy._ He hummed and stalked down down hallway, not even bothering to say anything else.

“Sorry about that,” Robin apologized, stepping out of the room and smiling at Emma and she felt some of her anger ebb. She hadn’t really talked to him that night at the restaurant and Will always seemed to be the one to butt into her conversations with Killian – her _three_ conversations with Killian.

She’d had three conversations with him.

“That’s ok, I’d imagine the fourth graders had the same reaction to having to wait for pizza.”  
  
“There’s pizza?”  
  
Emma nodded again, but this one came with a smile and she noticed that there were crinkles around Robin’s eyes when he returned the move. He looked a little older than Killian, hair a bit shorter and shoulders a bit wider and he was playing with the ring on his left hand like it was a nervous habit.

“There is, in fact, pizza,” Emma confirmed. “You might have to battle some nine-year-olds, but it’s there.”  
  
“Ah, I can take ‘em. I don’t have as many penalty minutes as Scarlet, but I think I’ve got a distinct size advantage.” He paused for a moment, crossing his arms lightly as he rocked back on his heels. “This was good, Emma, really good. The kids were thrilled.”  
  
“You guys did most of the work. And the three of you didn’t even get to skate.”  
  
Robin shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’ve spent enough time on the ice, it was almost nice to get a break. Although if any of those kids say Phillip the Rookie is their new favorite player, we may have to stage some sort of on-ice showcase to prove our skills.”  
  
“That seems fair.”

He laughed softly and glanced over his shoulder and Killian hadn’t moved an inch – fingers racing over a phone screen as he shifted his weight, kicking at something invisible just a few inches in front of him. “I'm, uh,” he said slowly, eyes darting between Emma and Killian and _something_ was going on. “I’m going to go make sure Phillip the Rookie doesn’t steal all the pizza.”  
  
Emma bit back her immediate retort – that there were fourteen boxes of pizza, no one was stealing any of it, even an overly enthusiastic rookie winger – and nodded again, for the third time, and tugged on the bottom of her skirt.

“It’s not bad,” Robin muttered, glancing back towards Killian and the phone and the seemingly novel-length text message he was typing out. “Just, you know, talk to him.”  
  
She nodded for a fourth time and Emma wondered when she’d apparently lost the ability to communicate like some sort of normal human being, taking Robin’s outstretched hand when he offered it to her.

“I’ll save you guys some pizza,” he said. She didn’t think she imagined him squeezing slightly before moving down the hallway and leaving her very alone a few feet away from Killian Jones, who wasn’t wearing skates, but was still wearing his practice jersey.

She didn’t move.

She stood there for what felt like several hours and Killian just kept texting.

Emma tugged her hair back over her shoulder and then rolled her shoulders and that kind of defeated the purpose of moving her hair at all. She pulled the walkie-talkie back up to her mouth, pressing the button and squeezing her eyes shut before she spoke.

“Permission to come aboard?” she asked, silently wincing at how absurd she sounded.

Killian’s head snapped up and he turned towards her, eyes wide and blue and smile inching across his face as he put his phone down on the table he was still sitting on. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and Emma heard the buzz that came just before he responded.

“I think that’s just for ships, love.” And she didn’t correct him that time, just lifted her eyebrows and leaned against the door frame, holding the walkie-talkie loosely in her hand. Killian twisted on the table, sneakers squeaking when they moved across the floor and he pulled the walkie-talkie a bit closer to his lips. “10-4,” he said.

Emma smiled when she walked into the room – almost entirely forgetting about the pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk incoming! Also, as an aside, meddling, but overprotective Will Scarlet is a fave of mine. Andddd next chapter we'll have some more character introductions because there are, approximately, 800 characters in this story. 
> 
> I continue to be just stunned and so ridiculously thankful for the fantastic response to this and how incredible every single one of you continues to be. As always, @laurenorder is a beacon of word-reading wonderful'ness. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

It was a dress again.

She was wearing a dress and there was a belt and that had probably been where she’d kept the walkie-talkie – not that he was thinking about where she’d been keeping the walkie-talkie for the last three hours, attention divided entirely between twenty overly talkative fourth graders and the way Emma Swan’s arms looked in the dress she was wearing.

He was an idiot.

He’d put his number in her work phone and she’d never called – she hadn’t even told him that he needed to be at this event today, Killian had just gotten an e-mail and shown up in Tarrytown only vaguely listening to Will and Robin’s comments on the car ride upstate. And the e-mail hadn’t even come from _her._ It had come from her assistant.

She had an assistant now.

She had a whole department now and events to run and a community to relate to and Killian had replied almost as soon as the e-mail had shown up in in his inbox, some sort of resounding _yes_ that didn’t even try to mask his enthusiasm at the prospect of seeing Emma again. Even if she hadn’t called.

Robin and Will had been as obnoxious as ever on the walk down the hallway, bordering dangerously close to high school territory and Killian was more frustrated by that than by not getting a phone call in the last week.

“Look at him,” Will muttered, nudging Robin’s shoulder while one group of fourth graders moved out of the film room as soon as Emma had walkie-talkie’d back to him. They were all so _loud._ They hadn’t stopped talking in days, at least, and they’d only been here for a few hours. “Ready and willing to play hero for community relations.”  
  
“It’s not Emma’s fault there were more kids than she planned for,” Robin said reasonably and Killian only half heard what they were saying, mind a muddled mix of signing autographs and explaining concussions and trying not to drown in a seemingly endless sea of guilt and should-have-beens.

Will sighed, crossing his arm tightly as he sank into one of the now-abandoned chairs in front of the table. “Yeah, but this is all bordering a little close to…”  
  
He cut himself off when he saw Robin shake his head, glare practically making noise in the momentarily quiet room and Killian heaved a sigh, not even trying to mask the sound. “I’m sitting right here, you know,” he said, glancing towards Will, who at least had the good sense to look a little repentant.

“I know, that’s why I don’t understand what you’re doing.”  
  
“Try and make at least a little bit of sense.”  
  
“I mean,” Will said pointedly, sitting up a little straighter. “That this is all bordering a bit close to you feeling sorry for yourself all over again and either this community relations girl doesn’t know anything about you and Liam or she doesn’t care and I’m not entirely certain which one is worse.”

Killian sighed again, scuffing the back of his shoes on the floor. His skates were back in his locker, taken off as soon as he realized he wasn’t actually going to get on the ice, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Will was right.

Emma must not have known.

She couldn’t have known.

She wouldn’t have asked if she had, would have known that each explanation and each enthusiastic question from every slightly hyped-up fourth grader was like getting cut by those same skates stuck in his locker – that moment playing out in front of his eyes again and again and again.

He wished he was on the ice.

Everything was a bit easier when he was on the ice and he’d be able to shoot at something, _anything,_ and maybe work out some of this residual energy because the moment Killian had seen Emma that afternoon – in that dress with a walkie-talkie in her hand and a slightly overwhelmed look on her face – something in him seemed to audibly shift. It was just nerves. That was all it was.

And that didn’t make much sense either.

He was the captain of the New York Rangers – he didn’t get nervous. About anything. Least of all a community relations manager with bright eyes and a smile that seemed to cut through him and something in the way she stood that practically screamed she _understood._ He wasn’t quite sure what she understood, but he was certain she did.

It made him nervous.

“I don’t think she knows,” Robin muttered. Killian’s eyebrows shot up, the certainty in his voice catching him by surprise. “Gina heard through the _whatever_ that she’s been in the league for years, nearly as long as we have, and she started in Vancouver and then went to LA for awhile and, well, if she was bouncing around like that she probably doesn’t know about Liam. It’s not like she was in the Metro. I mean, it was a big deal, and we all knew it was a big deal, but it wasn’t like...national news.”  
  
And it hadn’t been.

It had been front page of the New York tabloids – for _weeks_ and Killian had avoided leaving his apartment as much as possible, far too focused on the playoffs and trying to get to the hospital when he wasn’t on the ice, doing his best to just sit there and wait and not actually meet Elsa’s worried gaze – but they’d only been in the league for a little while and Liam wasn’t the star he should have been.

Not yet.

There it was – the guilt Killian had been trying to ignore while talking to two sets of fourth graders washing over him quickly and suddenly and his breath might have actually caught in his throat when he heard his phone go off next to him, vibrating on the imitation wood of the table he was sitting on.

Will stared at him, eyebrows drawn low and lips pulled into a tight line and Killian ignored him, fingers flying across the screen of his phone, answering Elsa and her questions about the start of the season and she did this every year – tried to make him feel better and calmer and she probably had some sort of sixth sense now, some feeling in the back of her mind that would perk up whenever he was feeling particularly sorry for himself.

“I’m just saying,” Will continued. “Seems kind of weird that she’d ask us to do this part and not actually get on the ice.”

“She didn’t,” Killian said and he could feel both of their gazes on either side of his head, certain Will’s jaw had gone just a bit slack for good measure.

“What?”  
  
“She didn’t ask. I volunteered us.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Killian shrugged. It was a good question, one he wasn’t entirely certain he had an answer to and he glanced towards the doorway to find Emma sitting against the far wall, walkie-talkie strapped to the belt around her waist and a smile on her face while she talked to Mary Margaret and David. His phone vibrated again and Elsa was absolutely a psychic – some sort of other level magic apparent in each letter of the message, like she _knew_ him or something.

“So what you’re telling me, Cap,” Will pressed, pushing himself out of the chair and tugging on the bottom of his jersey. “Is that we could have gotten on the ice today, shown off a bit, and you locked us in the film room to answer questions? Why?”  
  
“You already asked that.”  
  
“And you didn’t answer.”  
  
Killian ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the nape of his neck and pulled his lip in between his teeth, wishing Robin and Will would leave and stop asking questions he didn’t have answers to.

Or questions he didn’t want to answer.

Will shook his head when Killian didn’t actually say anything, shooting Robin another look for good measure and groaning when he didn’t get anything out of him. He rolled his eyes and this wasn’t even high school anymore, this was middle school. Will sank back into the chair like he’d just been told he couldn’t go to recess or something equally absurd.

Killian heard them talking in the hallway, leaning forward to try and actually make out what he was saying, but Robin clapped him on the shoulder and he twisted his neck around. “Don’t do that,” Killian said, ignoring his phone, buzzing almost incessantly next to him now.

“I’m not doing anything,” Robin promised and it was the most honest sounding lie he’d ever heard. “And you should answer El.”

“She thinks we’re in practice anyway, she can wait.”  
  
Robin clicked his tongue and Killian knew the lecture wasn’t done, had lived with Robin Locksley as some sort of pseudo-older brother from the moment Liam got hurt to that very second and he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t a plan they’d come up with themselves.

“Did she ever actually call?” Robin asked and Killian shook his head. “Ah, well, she had a whole community to plan for.”  
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat, staring at his shoes and he hadn’t actually ever moved his hand out of his hair. “You know Will’s not intentionally trying to be a dick.”

“I know that.”

Will scoffed in the background, possibly sticking his tongue out, but at least making some sort of face and Killian rolled his eyes.  
  
“Try not to check him too hard tomorrow, Arthur’ll make you skate sprints for half an hour if you do. And your legs won’t be able to hold up to that kind of stress.”  
  
“Thanks for that vote of confidence.”  
  
Robin chuckled under his breath and Killian saw the ends of his mouth tick up. “Ah, well, you’re old Jones. You know that new kid said you were his favorite player growing up. That’s got to sting doesn’t it?”  
  
“That’s just because he didn’t say you were his favorite player.”  
  
“Ass,” Robin laughed, eyes darting towards the door and the lack of fourth graders and Emma was sitting by herself, Mary Margaret leading a single-file line of nine-year-olds away from her. “She really probably doesn’t know.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“You should probably tell her.”  
  
“We’ll see.”  
  
And this time it was Robin’s turn to roll his eyes, gaze shooting towards the ceiling and the very expensive piece of film equipment screwed into the plaster or _whatever_ and even Will made some sort of disbelieving sound.

Elsa had texted four times in a row now and Killian was certain the most recent one was in all caps even before he actually moved to grab his phone. Robin put his hand back on his shoulder and looked at him as intently as Killian could ever remember, something important in his gaze like he knew _this_ was important and Emma Swan was important and none of it really made any sense.

They’d talked three times – well maybe four if they were counting the current conversation they were having via walkie talkie.

He’d volunteered them into the film room without even being asked.

And he could feel her eyes on the side of his head, like she was trying to come up with a reason to talk to him or not talk to him and she hadn’t actually moved away from the wall yet.

“It’s not a bad thing, Cap,” Robin said and that might have been the first time he’d called Killian that in ages, the title or the nickname or whatever it was, speaking louder than any other word he might have been able to come up with. “You’re allowed things.”  
  
Killian eyed him meaningfully – trying to ignore Will completely at this point – and of the few people who knew the truth about the accident, knew the truth about her and what he’d wanted before, Robin might have been the last person he expected to try and talk him back into wanting something again.

It had been a weird day.

Robin shrugged, as if that settled that and he wasn’t telling Killian to jump back into some metaphorical deep end of emotions and wants. He wasn’t convinced he wasn’t already halfway drowning in them, certain he could describe the green in Emma’s eyes after three conversations and a few stolen moments glancing at her in the hallway and he was a sentimental fool who always wanted more than he deserved.

His phone buzzed again – five straight text messages now and Elsa was nothing if not insistent.

“Answer, El,” Robin said again.

“And ask if the twins have figured out to hold a stick yet,” Will added, not sounding quite as bitter about spending the day in the film room as he had before.

“They’re four,” Killian muttered. “And if you don’t think Liam’s had them perfecting their stick handling since they’ve been able to stand, you don’t know him at all.”  
  
Will laughed, standing up and walking towards the door with Robin close on his heels. “Nah, got to make ‘em defenders. Both of them.”

The sixth text message came as soon as the words were out of his mouth – as if Elsa had heard Will’s decree from the other side of the country and wasn’t particularly pleased with the idea – and Killian nodded dismissively, barely moving his eyes away from the phone as he heard their footsteps retreating towards the hallway.

There was a little bubble on the screen now – seventh text incoming and Killian probably shouldn’t have replied to the first one, because now Elsa was going to get answers whether he wanted to give them or not.

She was good at that, had always been good at that, especially when they were kids. And for as much as she loved Liam, in some sort of capital ‘T,’ capital ‘L’ true love kind of way, Killian and Elsa had always been kindred spirits, never quite entirely certain or entirely confident and she might have actually been his best friend.

He’d never tell her that.

_Alright, who is she?_

That was text message number one. Text messages two through five were along the same lines, mentions of Liam’s refusal to actually say anything except that she worked for the team and that Elsa knew there was more to the story.

Text message six was vaguely menacing.

_I’m serious, KJ. If you don’t answer now I’m actually going to call and I know you hate talking on the phone. So I expect an answer in three seconds flat._

He hadn’t answered in three seconds flat, had been ignoring her completely for the last three minutes, and, well, he supposed he deserved text message seven.

It was a picture.

Of the twins.

Of the twins in _uniform_ – his uniform, the slightly smaller-than-usual ‘C’ on the shoulder making that blatantly obvious – and they were holding a sign in between them with hastily written letters as if she’d barely had time to swipe the pen across the page before thrusting the paper at her four-year-olds and making them pose.

 _Uncle Killian,_ the sign read _, stop being a jerk and ignoring mom and tell us about the GIRL._

Killian rolled his eyes, but he was smiling in spite of himself and Elsa probably already knew she’d won, using the twins and the vaguely ancient nickname as ammunition in this text message war they were staging. He typed out the response quickly, only glancing away from the screen long enough to see Robin talking to Emma and he ignored whatever his stomach did at the sight.

**Way to use your kids to your advantage, El. Seems like cheating.**

_Yeah, well I had to pull out the metaphorical big guns because you weren’t answering._

**I am kind of busy.**

_Talking to the girl?  
_  
**Oh my God. Who even are you, right now? This is Anna-territory, not you.**

_That’s low._

**You made a sign and put your kids in my jersey. Look who’s calling who low.**

_I didn’t put them in the jerseys. They did that on their own. Something about the season starting and it was all very adorable._

Killian bit his lip, stomach flipping again and the jealousy and the want was back and he should probably actually talk to Gina about his contract and what he wanted or didn’t want and he was looking back into the hallway again before he could stop himself.

She was still talking to Robin, eyes focused on her shoes and mouth twisted into something that looked almost thoughtful. He needed to leave this room. He needed to get off this table. And maybe get some of that food she’d mentioned.

His phone made more noise.

_KJ you still haven’t actually told me anything. Liam said something about the team and that’s all I was able to get. Come on, I’m going nuts._

She wasn’t. Killian knew she wasn’t – far too preoccupied with a very impressive job in the state department and that was why they’d moved to Colorado in the first place, picking up and leaving New York with only a few week’s notice and settling into some picturesque life.

Elsa was smarter than both Killian and Liam combined, the ridiculous number of degrees on her office wall a testament to that, but she was also nicer and _better_ and, well, still his best friend even if he’d never actually told her.

She probably knew anyway.

**You should probably stop calling her a girl.**

_So this happening then?  
_  
**You still sound like Anna.**

_She’s just as curious as I am._

**Jeez. No, this is not happening. Liam wasn’t lying El, she works for the team and she just got here and...no.**

_No?_

**No.**

_Why not?  
_  
**Something about professional decency?**  
_  
I don’t think so._

**I shudder to imagine what you do think.**

_Rude. I think if you’ve already talked to Liam about her then you like her. It’s not automatically the same, you know._

Killian gripped his phone a bit tighter than normal and resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair or try and flex his left hand.

She was right – it wasn’t _exactly_ the same, mostly because _she’d_ never actually worked for the team or been on the team or really been involved in a team at all, just by association, but there’d still been that connection and she’d still died and somewhere along the line Killian had started associating Milah with hockey and that probably wasn’t healthy.

It was also probably why Robin had looked at him like some sort of charity case before walking into the hallway.

He took a deep breath and loosened his grip on the phone, mostly so it didn’t snap in half.

**We’re not doing this, El. You and me or me and her. Don’t listen to Liam or Robin and especially not Scarlet if he somehow decides to get involved in this anymore than he has. She and I are friends, that’s it.**

It took a few moments for Elsa to respond, almost as if she were trying to decide the best way to word her response.

_She have a name, at least?_

**Emma. Her name is Emma.**

“Permission to come aboard?” a voice asked from the walkie-talkie he’d almost forgotten was still sitting on the table.

Killian blinked once, nearly dropping his phone, and he glanced towards the hallway and Emma, standing there with a walkie-talkie in her hand and a slightly nervous smile on her face. His phone made another noise and he ignored Elsa again, vaguely aware that he hadn’t even told Liam what Emma’s name was.

He reached blindly behind him, fumbling for the walkie-talkie and pressing the button so he could actually respond. “I think that’s just for ships, love,” he said, the nickname falling out of his mouth before he could stop himself and he winced slightly when he realized what he’d done. She didn’t correct him.

And her smile didn’t look quite as nervous anymore.  

He moved again, twisting slightly on the table until he was turned towards her completely and he knew he was smiling too. Idiot. He was an idiot. And barely treading water in the deep end of these particular emotions.

“10-4,” he added and Emma took a step into the film room.

She hooked the walkie-talkie back onto her belt and his eyes didn’t leave hers while she walked towards him, sinking down on the table next to him instead of the enormous chairs and padded seats he expected her to pick.

His phone buzzed again and Killian barely suppressed a groan as he grabbed it, flicking the volume off before tossing it towards one of the empty chairs in front of him.

“Popular guy,” Emma laughed softly, nodding towards the phone as the screen lit up again.

“Not really,” he argued. “Just my sister-in-law.”

She hummed in the back of her throat, nodding in understanding as she narrowed her eyes slightly. “And her name is...what does that say?”  
  
“El. It says El. It probably should say Elsa. Since that’s her name. I’m pretty positive only Liam calls her that though. Well, him and Mr. and Mrs. Vankald, but they don’t really count since they’re her parents. I mean they call Liam ‘William’ and…”  
  
He cut himself off, lip caught tightly in between his teeth, and it really was far too easy to talk to her, bringing up Mr. and Mrs. Vankald in conversation number four as easily as if this were conversation four hundred.

Not that he was keeping track.

That would have idiotic.

And he wasn’t an idiot.

He was the captain of the New York Rangers. As if that proved anything more than he was just fairly talented on ice with a stick in his hand.

Emma glanced back up at him, eyes not quite as narrow anymore and just as green as he was certain he remembered. She smiled again, something bordering close to encouraging, as she tugged on the ends of her hair.

“And Liam,” she said slowly, hardly blinking when she looked at him. “He’s your brother, right?”  
  
Killian nodded. “Yeah. Older.”  
  
Emma bit her lip and the smile wavered just a bit. He could practically _feel_ the nerves rolling off her and that wasn’t right at all. Killian lowered one eyebrow, head tilted and hand on hers and they might have both jumped slightly at the contact.

Or maybe that was just him.

He wasn’t really breathing.

“What’s the matter, Swan?” he asked, voice soft and low and she’d stopped looking at him. “Today went pretty well, better than that even if the kid’s reactions were anything to go by. They seemed pretty thrilled to be here.”  
  
“That was because they were excited to meet you.”  
  
He made a noise in the back his throat, a contradiction without actually saying any words. “And the reason I was here was because of you. That’s why any of us were here. You planned all of this and dealt with twenty more kids than you expected and none of them missed out on anything. They even got food.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to let them starve,” Emma mumbled, but the ends of her mouth had ticked back up and her eyes darted towards his face.

He still hadn’t moved his hand.

“Exactly.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“For?”

Emma waved her hand in front of her like that was supposed to prove something and Killian felt himself smiling even more when she shifted, letting out a soft _oof_ as she tried to pull the walkie talkie off her belt with one hand.

“Swan?” he asked, finally pulling his hand off hers and moving it to the far less appropriate spot on her hip as he tugged the walkie-talkie off easily. “What exactly are you thanking me for?”  
  
She made a face when he threw the toy with its counterpart and Killian raised his eyebrows again. “You made that look easy,” she said, voice sounding a little accusatory and he shrugged in response.

Emma shook her head, hair moving over her shoulders and she took a deep breath. And those nerves Killian had felt coming off her just a few moments before had settled into the pit of his own stomach, concern etched on her face like she was nervous about the conversation they weren’t really having yet.

“I just...thanks,” Emma repeated, sighing again when she realized she hadn’t actually answered the question. “For this.”  
  
“This?”  
  
“Jeez, you’re really going to make me work for it, huh?”  
  
Killian shook his head, both hands back at their very workplace-appropriate spot on his side, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, letting her work out whatever she was actually trying to thank him for.

It’s not like she knew.

She didn’t know about Liam – _he_ certainly hadn’t told her about Liam. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew, even if she had, he absolutely would have shown up anyway and still volunteered to answer questions and entertain twenty more fourth graders than they’d originally planned for.

If only to just make sure she kept smiling like that.

Idiot.

And he’d told Elsa her name. He’d never hear the end of it now.

And that same, stupid voice in the back of his mind knew immediately – he didn’t really want to.

“David told me,” Emma said, rushing over the words and if that was the explanation Killian didn’t really understand it. “He told me, just now, I mean, about Liam and what happened and...I just, ugh, I wouldn’t have asked if I had known. So thank you and I’m sorry and, well, mostly thank you because I really didn’t know.”

She was babbling, hands moving quickly in the tiny amount of space in between them and by the time she’d stopped talking, lip pulled back tightly behind her teeth and eyes practically boring a hole in the floor, she’d somehow worked her way closer towards him until their thighs were almost touching. The air, suddenly, felt very heavy or maybe there just wasn’t enough air in this film room and Killian was half surprised no one had come looking for them.

Emma was still staring at her feet, shoulders tight with the nerves Killian could still feel and he probably shouldn’t have moved his hand to her shoulder, but he did and she didn’t flinch. She looked up at him.  

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Swan,” Killian said, doing his best to make it sound like the promise it was. “Honestly.”  
  
“I just didn’t know.”  
  
“So you mentioned.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have asked if I had known.”  
  
“You didn’t ask,” he pointed out, hand tightening unconsciously until his thumb brushed across her shoulder blade, dangerously close to the strap of her dress. “I volunteered. And volunteered Scarlet and Locksley.”  
  
“That’s true.”  
  
“So there’s not anything to thank, really.” Emma hummed and she didn’t look particularly impressed with his answer. “What?”  
  
She shrugged. “You could have said something, you know.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“Are you being difficult on purpose or just because you think it’s cute?”

He felt one end of his mouth tick up and Emma’s eyes widened slightly when she realized what she said. “Are you telling me I’m cute, Swan? Because that seems to go against this whole on-ice persona I’ve created over the last few seasons. That’s disappointing.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now and the tension was gone as quickly as it had come.

And it had never been this easy before, talking and teasing and he was smiling too – it had never been this, not even with _her_ and those few months with her and there was probably much more to that, but Killian resolutely refused to even acknowledge it.

Even if the phone in front of him seemed intent on doing the exact opposite. It seemed to light up every other second, a different name flashing across the screen now and that wasn’t even fair – Elsa had called in recruits and now his entire inbox was threatening to blow up with questions and comments and _opinions_ from Anna.

That felt like cheating.

Elsa had been right – and so had Liam, if he was being honest – he’d never _really_ dated anyone on the team, had barely even dated within the league, but she’d changed everything and now he had rules and regulations and he shouldn’t be smiling at Emma Swan if he wanted to follow any of them.

Milah Onde showed up in his life like some sort of ridiculous hockey cliché about getting hit against the boards and cross-checked in the back and he’d do it all over again without even thinking about it.

She hadn’t been wearing the ring and the papers weren’t _quite_ legal yet, but she wasn’t really married either and they’d been able to rationalize it easily – mutterings about escaping that life and living her life and how she was taking control of what she wanted.

Milah had wanted him and Killian had wanted her and a few weeks after Liam had been admitted into the hospital she’d barreled into his life like a breath of fresh air that helped loosen that tightness in his chest just a bit.

She wasn’t part of the team, didn’t work for the Rangers or the league, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her husband did. One of the biggest names in hockey and hockey ownership and he probably had more money than God because he’d just sold the Islanders when Killian met Milah on 23rd Street and she hadn’t been wearing the ring.

He didn’t know.

And once he did, he didn’t care.

It was good –  _perfect_ – for those first few months and he got back on the ice and actually started to skate without having to try and he almost didn’t feel guilty when the season started and Liam wasn’t on the line next to him. Almost.

She made sure he didn’t.

Then the phone calls came and the e-mails and the courier-delivered messages with a seal on them like it was 1846. And it wasn’t quite as perfect and Killian was just as worried as he’d ever been, emotions focused on Milah and the way her eyes dulled just a bit with every warning – ultimatum – demanding she come back and that he wouldn’t sign the papers and that he _knew,_ whatever that meant.

They should have listened.

Or called someone.

He should have made sure. He didn’t. He kept skating and scoring and there were reports that he was a lock for the Hart.

They stopped worrying.

And that had been the mistake.

He never would have been able to prove it, could never know that it was anymore than the drunk driver the police report claimed it to be, but he could see it in her eyes and her quick gasp when the car came around the corner, ignoring the light and the horns and she turned towards him just a second before impact, muttering _I love you_ in his ear.

She was gone.

Just like that.

So he’d come up with a set of rules and regulations as straight and stringent as the blue line when he stood on the ice before the anthem, keeping him on track like that was some way to remember Milah.

He’d never won the Hart Trophy.

Emma bumped her arm against his, shaking him out of whatever vaguely depressing reverie he’d been staging and she was still smiling.

“I think you ruined that on-ice persona yourself,” she said. “You were the talk of the fourth-grade town while they were walking out. They were more excited about you than the pizza.”  
  
“I almost forgot about the pizza.”  
  
“That’s the food I mentioned.”  
  
Killian nodded and he still couldn’t quite believe no one had come looking for them – actually, no, he could and he should probably thank Locksley later, almost entirely certain that was his doing.

“Really though,” Emma continued, voice going a little softer when she started talking again. “You could have said something. I would have understood.”

“That would have decidedly brought down the mood of the day, Swan. How’d you even find out?”

“I told you, David.”  
  
“Ah, but that doesn’t just seem like information he’d just throw out without a bit of prompting. Sounds like you were talking about me, love.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but her cheeks got slightly redder and he was fairly positive he wasn’t imagining it. “Apparently we’re some kind of hot gossip commodity.” Killian lowered his eyebrows, confusion written on his face and Emma’s smile turned a bit sardonic. “He wanted to know why I didn’t call you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She shrugged. “Apparently it was a whole train of discussion and this team is insane, by the way, because it absolutely started with them.”  
  
“What?” he repeated, tugging on the hair just behind his ear. “Wait, you mean Locksley and Scarlet?” She nodded, leaning back on her palms as she glanced back at him. “Fuck,” Killian muttered. “I’m sorry, love, I, uh, I wasn’t bragging about it or anything if that’s what you think. I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t do that.”  
  
Emma snapped back up, spine going almost dangerously straight and she looked at him like she’d never seen him before. “I know that.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”

And he absolutely believed her, something settling in the pit of his stomach that felt distinctly like want and absolutely broke every rule he’d ever come up with. “Good,” Killian said, resisting the urge to ask her why she hadn’t actually called.

That felt a bit like pushing and in the, now, four conversations he’d had with Emma Swan he’d realized one thing almost immediately – she didn’t like being pushed.  

His phone lit up again and this time it was Liam’s name on the screen and the entire cavalry had arrived, determined to make sure he was _happy_ or something equally absurd and maybe he didn’t actually want to get traded to Colorado if this was any sign of how much family he was going to be subjected to once he was there.

“You can answer that, you know,” Emma said, nodding towards the phone and Liam’s face. He’d left a voicemail. Of course he had. Had probably gotten the twins to talk too just to make sure Killian called back.

“He can wait. They all can for that matter. Until about twenty minutes ago they thought I was on the ice. I really shouldn’t have answered El in the first place. Rookie mistake.”  
  
Emma laughed, pulling her legs up closer to the table and they were dangerously close to each other again, just a few inches of space between her dress and his jeans and he probably could have put his hand on her knee if he wanted to.

He wanted to.

He also didn’t do it.

“Ok, so Elsa,” Emma said slowly, tongue darting along her lower lip and he didn’t notice that either. Of course not. “She’s your sister-in-law? That means she’s married to Liam, right? Unless there’s another sibling I don’t know about.”  
  
Killian’s mouth dropped open slightly and he could almost feel the air rushing out of his lungs, the genuine interest on her face taking him by surprise. She pressed her lips together tightly when he didn’t answer fast enough and that feeling in the pit of his stomach was replaced with something decidedly different – dread.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, brushing her hair off her shoulder and shaking her head and her eyes had fallen back to her shoes. “That’s...I don’t even know...so not my business at all. Sorry. Just forget I even asked.”  
  
She was halfway to standing up, eyes darting anywhere that wasn’t him and Killian moved before he’d even really thought about it, turning on her so his hands were on Emma’s shoulders and his knees hit up against hers.

“It’s fine, love,” he muttered. She looked at him. “Really. And there’s no other sibling. Not technically, at least.”  
  
“Technically?”  
  
“Well, I’m not sure how much David actually told you when giving you my entire life story,” he started, moving his eyebrows quickly when she reached out to smack his shoulder lightly, “but Liam and I were on our own when we were younger. No mom, negative amounts of dad and we got very, very lucky.”  
  
“How?”

“The Vankald’s never actually adopted us, which all things considered is probably for the best, but they were about the best foster parents you could ask for and we stayed there while we were growing up. They had two daughters, which is where the technically comes into play.”

Emma moved, trying to shift away from the hands that were still on her shoulders and Killian dropped his arms back to his side as soon as he realized. She took a deep breath, fingers ghosting over the chain around her neck and the tension was back in an instant, stronger and more insistent than it had been before.

“Swan?” Killian asked softly, ducking his head to try and get into her eyeline and she jumped when he spoke. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Fine,” she answered quickly, too quickly to be true, but he didn’t even try to argue. He wasn’t going to push. Not yet.

Not ever.

There were, after all, rules.

Emma took a deep breath and he wasn’t sure if she was nodding to try and convince him she was _actually_ fine or trying to convince herself, but it didn’t really matter either way when her eyes pulled back up towards him and he couldn’t really think straight when she did that. That probably should have felt like a problem.

It didn’t.

She pulled her head back up and stared straight at him and shifted half an inch forward until her knees were brushing his thighs and he’d lost his train of thought completely.

“So,” Emma said pointedly and Killian didn’t argue the redirect of the conversation. “You had sisters then?”  
  
“Technically.”  
  
“Technically. And why is it good that they never actually adopted you?”  
  
“That would probably make Liam and Elsa getting married somewhat uncomfortable.”

Emma’s laugh seemed to sink into every single one of his muscles and maybe even his bones and the scars on his left hand and Killian silently wondered when he’d become such a sentimental fool. Or when he wanted to trail his fingers across her arms and find out why she’d brushed off _fine_ as quickly as she had.  
  
“It probably would have,” she agreed, smile inching across her face. “When did you move in with them, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
  
“I don’t. I was eight, Liam was eleven. El was ten, although she never actually acted like she was a kid, and Anna was eight too. But she’ll tell you that probably shouldn’t count because we moved in three days before her birthday.”

“So you’re the youngest?”  
  
Killian nodded begrudgingly and _there_ it was – the determination that had been fostered in him from three quasi-siblings and an almost family making a bit more sense than he wanted to admit as soon as Emma asked the question.

They cared. Too much. And they’d probably destroy his phone battery, but it almost didn’t matter because they’d always done this.

Mr. and Mrs. Vankald used to call them the four horsemen when they were growing up and it wasn’t the insult it sounded like – they were a team, that’s all. And this team looked out for each other, even when the youngest one was being ridiculously stubborn.

“That’s nice,” Emma muttered, sounding as if she was talking half to herself.

“It was. Is. They’re just very insistent.”  
  
“When did Liam and Elsa get married?”  
  
“Three seasons after we got drafted, almost as soon as Liam got discharged from the hospital,” Killian answered automatically, wincing slightly when he realized he counted time in seasons and not months or actual years.

“I do that too.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Tell time by seasons and playoff appearances.”  
  
Killian laughed, hand moving back to her shoulder and Emma still didn’t flinch. She didn’t move her eyes away either, just smiled and waited for more information like she was genuinely interested in the family he’d stumbled into.

“I always thought it’d happen,” he mumbled, not entirely sure he was talking or just admitting to something he hadn’t ever said out loud and Emma didn’t stop him, just raised her eyebrows and waited for him to continue. “When we were kids, I always kind of knew. And then he went to school and she used to go visit him and that wasn’t _weird,_ we grew up together, but then we won a title and everything kind of snapped into place.

El was there through everything while we were growing up and neither one of them will admit to it, but I’m fairly certain they dated the entire time he was in Minnesota. So we got drafted and we came home and that made _that_ easier and he asked the day after rookie year ended, used his signing bonus to buy the ring and even asked Mr. Vankald for his blessing. Anna was over the moon, of course, which is probably half the reason why it happened so quickly. She was a planning fiend. El and Liam just had to show up.”  
  
“Makes it easier,” Emma said softly and Killian nodded, thumb brushing across her skin again.

“That’s definitely true.”

“Sounds a little like Reese’s and David, actually. They saw each other and it was as if the rest of the world had never existed. I’m surprised we’re only getting around to a wedding now, if I’m being honest.”  
  
“They’re getting married?” he asked, mostly surprised that Ariel hadn’t told him the news as soon as it had happened. Or before it had happened. This team talked far too much for its own good.

Emma hummed in the back of her throat, pointing at herself before she spoke. “Maid of honor.”

“Really? I look forward to seeing you forced into some sort of bridesmaid’s dress, Swan.”  
  
“You think you’re going to get invited to this wedding, then?”  
  
Killian shrugged and he could see the teasing glint in Emma’s eyes and this was _easy_ – she was easy to talk to and laugh with and maybe they could be friends. If he didn’t want to kiss her. He absolutely wanted to kiss her. “Eh, not really,” he said. “I’m mostly just confident that someone on this team will be and there’ll be pictures and no one on this roster really knows how to keep their mouths shut.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on that,” Emma admitted. “Is that why Will was so angry at me?”  
  
“Was Will angry at you?”  
  
“Seemed to be.”  
  
“That’s just Scarlet,” Killian said quickly, trying to brush the worry off Emma’s face and it only half worked. “He’s got all those penalty minutes, you know, just a lot of pent up aggression. He’ll be better once the season starts.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“Do you also suddenly switch personalities once the season starts?”  
  
“What would make you think that?”  
  
Emma shrugged, moving on top of the table again and wincing slightly when she kneed him in the thigh. “Sorry,” she muttered. He just shook his head. “I, uh, I’ve just known a good amount of hockey players and hockey _guys_ and things seem to change once the season starts. Preoccupied with goals, literal and figurative, and you guys are, like, on some sort of Cup quest, right? Ruby told me.”  
  
“Of course she did.”  
  
“You know I’ve never been part of a Cup team,” Emma mused, tugging on the bottom of her hair. “It’d be kind of cool to see.”  
  
“It’d be kind of cool to win.”

“You said Ruby told you about PR, when we were being set-up. Did she tell you how I ended up in New York?”

Killian opened his mouth, the lie and the _no_ on the tip of his tongue, but Emma was staring at him and there was an expectant expression on her face that almost looked like hope and he snapped his jaw shut before the words came out, nodding instead. “Yeah,” he said. “She said you’d been in LA when Gold showed up.”  
  
“You know Gold?”  
  
“Of him,” Killian answered and that wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. It wasn’t entirely the truth either. An omission.

“That was my second team, you know,” Emma continued. “I had never even seen a hockey game before David made me watch the Rangers and it was like someone flipped a switch on my life. I watched every game with him, drove Reese’s mad, and I was just...obsessed. So I went into PR because that was all I could do and I went to Vancouver and begged for a job and wouldn’t leave until they gave me a seat at the metaphorical and literal table. I stayed there for four seasons and then went to LA and they gave me a department and then they just decided, one day, I didn’t deserve to have it anymore.”  
  
She pulled her lips behind her teeth, glancing back up at him and she clearly hadn’t meant to talk that much. He was glad she had. And he wondered why she felt like she shouldn’t, but that felt dangerously close to pushing and emotions and there were _rules_.

There was a blue line to follow.

“You have a department now, Swan,” he pointed out, squeezing her shoulder slightly before he could come up with a reason not to.

“Community relations is different than PR.”  
  
“So you get to make forty fourth graders happy instead of dealing with press releases and making sure we all look good for the cameras.”

“As if you’re not already painfully aware that you look good for the cameras.”  
  
“Was that another compliment, love? You’re going to do dangerous things to my ego.”  
  
Emma quirked her eyebrow and the tension was different this time – not nervous or anxious, but eager and hopeful, like they were standing on the edge of some sort of knife and they’d had four conversations, were _having_ their fourth conversation, and he shouldn’t want as much as he did. He did. Want. And maybe need and Elsa’s text message seemed to flash in front of Killian’s eyes like some sort of neon light that maybe, _maybe,_ this was actually ok.

She hadn’t moved his hand off her shoulder and he didn’t think he was imagining the way she was leaning forward, inching into his space and her knee hit his thigh again.

It was because she’d started talking about the Cup, he reasoned, about wanting to win and never being on a _team_ like that before. He could hear it in her voice, the way it shook slightly, that she’d never really had anything like that – knew as soon as she’d looked back up at him that there was some sort of even ground here.

She’d stumbled into something too.

And everything seemed to shift, something that felt like _determination_ seeping into him. She hadn’t said anything, but he _knew,_ Emma had lost something too, or maybe never had it to begin with, and if she could find that in New York, could find that on this stupid team that was far too involved in each other’s lives than was actually healthy, then he was going to help make sure she did.

It was a strange conclusion to come to in the middle of the film room.

“You did a good thing here today, Swan,” Killian said, nodding slightly like that helped prove his point. “And if this is only the first thing you’ve planned on a week’s notice, then I can’t imagine what you’ll do with a whole season. I might even enjoy Casino Night.”

Emma’s laugh was shaky at best, but it was a laugh and there was a smile and that was really all he’d been trying for. “Thanks,” she muttered and he hummed softly, thumb moving in that same, small semicircle on her shoulder. “Can I ask you a question?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“David said you blamed yourself.”  
  
Killian raised his eyebrows, waiting for the rest of it and it never came, Emma’s mouth set in a thin, straight line. “That’s not exactly a question, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, I realize that.”  
  
He pulled his hand off her shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing the back of his neck tightly, trying to come up with an answer to a question he hadn’t really been asked.

The answer, of course, was that he had – still did – every time he stepped on the ice or thought about the game or considered what winning the Cup without Liam would actually feel like. Because, no matter what anyone had told him – Liam or El or Anna or even Milah – it had absolutely been his fault.

He’d taken the shot and he’d missed the net.

“Killian?” Emma asked softly and his head snapped back up, eyes wide and her voice didn’t shake that time. She just smiled and her hand fell on the front of his jersey, brushing over the extra patch underneath his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said simply. Emma sighed softly, the ends of her mouth ticking down slightly as her fingers tightened on the fabric on his jersey. “It just...he never really got a chance. We’d been to the playoffs once and never even come close to a Cup and, you know, it’s fine now. He’s in Colorado and he’s got El and a family and it’s Rockwell-esque levels of perfection, but this was his sport. He’s the reason I’m here and I took that away from him.”  
  
And just like he knew Emma hadn’t meant to talk that much about the teams she’d worked for, he hadn’t meant to talk that long about Liam. Or talk about Liam at all. He should have talked about the season or goal-scoring or how close he was to making it into the top five in points and he could have smiled and done that _thing_ with his eyebrows that always seemed to work and hadn’t worked yet on Emma.

It wouldn’t.

Because they’d both said too much and it was only their fourth conversation and neither one of them could seem to stop talking.

He should probably just suck it up and _ask_ for her number at this point. Her real one.

“That’s ridiculous,” Emma said and there was a determination in her voice that Killian appreciated more than he probably should, that extra glint in her eyes that seemed to settle in his very core.

“Ah, well, so is thinking you don’t deserve your own department or the chance to relate to the community.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about about _me_ and you’ve already thrown out two different compliments and then told me I was ridiculous for feeling guilty about ending my brother’s career.”

Emma scoffed, but her hand hadn’t fallen away from the ‘C’ on his jersey and there was probably some sort of deeper meaning there that he didn’t really want to consider. She shrugged and tilted her head and it might have actually been the most adorable thing he’d ever seen, photo of the twins in his jersey notwithstanding.

“Those weren’t really compliments,” Emma argued.  
  
“I’m choosing to take them that way.”  
  
“Ah, well, to each their own, I guess.” He smiled, hand moving up to wrap around Emma’s wrist and her eyes widened slightly at the contact. “Although I’m not disagreeing to the last part.”  
  
“Which part?”  
  
“The part where it wasn’t actually your fault that Liam got hurt.”  
  
“You can’t say that.”  
  
“I just did.”  
  
“You didn’t even know what happened until David told you.”  
  
“Semantics.”

Killian hummed in response, eyes falling back down to the fingers he still had wrapped around her wrist and she hadn’t tried to shake him off yet. He could feel his mouth moving the longer he stared, falling back on smirks and bravado and that was comfortable. He needed comfortable because he couldn’t quite breathe.

“There’s pizza, you know,” Emma said and it sounded a bit like a whisper and maybe she couldn’t quite breathe either.

“So you mentioned.”  
  
“It might be gone by now. Actually. Robin said he’d save slices so Phillip didn’t steal all of them. Something about him being a rookie.”  
  
“I think I’ll survive if there isn’t any pizza, Swan.”  
  
“Good,” she sputtered, eyes falling back to her hand and his hand and she was biting her lip again. “That’s good. And you were really good today. Like above and beyond the call of duty.”  
  
“We’ve been over this, Swan, it wasn’t a big deal.”  
  
“Yes it was.”  
  
The sincerity in her voice brought him up short, unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome and he shifted towards her half a step, shuffling over the small amount of space that was still, somehow, in between them.

She couldn’t really move her legs – dress making it difficult to move at all – and Killian felt his breath hitch in his throat when Emma figured a way around it, sliding off the desk and coming up just in front of him, certain he could feel every inch of her.

“Thank you,” Emma said again, hands falling back towards her side and that didn’t do much to help put any actual space in between them.

There were rules.  
  
He’d come up with rules.

He’d almost explained them entirely to Liam and Elsa and Emma hadn’t ever actually called him back. He didn’t care.

And he was a greedy asshole who wanted.

Killian wanted her – had since Ariel had screamed his name two weeks ago and he’d spun on the spot and he didn’t care about the set-up.

“Ah,” he said slowly, rocking back on his heels and brushing his hand over his face. “Well maybe you can find a way to repay me.”

He knew it hadn’t worked as soon as the words were out of his mouth, knew it wouldn’t work _before_ the words were out of his mouth, but Emma smiled anyway, something flashing in her eyes when she tilted her head and looked at him speculatively.

God, he was still wearing a jersey. What a fucking ass.

“Yeah, that’s what the ‘thank you’ was for. And the pizza. But mostly the thank you.”

“There might not be any pizza left.”  
  
They’d found some space between them, Killian still leaning back and Emma was half sitting on the desk again when she brushed her hair off her shoulders. She blinked once, shaking her head before she actually said anything, almost as if she couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. He couldn’t either.

Idiot.

They were tempting fate – someone was going to come look for one of them soon – and he didn’t care. He wanted to kiss her. Badly. And he was fairly positive he didn’t imagine the way Emma’s eyes moved down, glancing towards his lips.

“Please,” Emma muttered. “You couldn’t handle it.”  
  
Killian leaned forward again, resisting the urge to wrap his hand around her hips and that belt. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”  
  
It felt like everything froze – both of them staring at each other and chancing glances at respective lips and he’d never been this nervous in his entire life, not before the National Championship or before he got drafted or his first game.

One look from Emma Swan, however, and Killian Jones, captain of the New York _fucking_ Rangers was frozen to the tiled floor under his sneakers, eyes wide and breath short and this was _idiotic._ He should just ask for her real number and fuck the rules and maybe they could go to a restaurant that wasn’t somehow directly associated with this stupid team.

He didn’t get a chance.

He was half a breath away from it, half a breath away from apologizing for whatever had just happened in the last few minutes and telling her pizza, whether it was there or not, was fine, more than enough, but then she grabbed the front of his jersey and moved back off the table and he _really_ could feel her everywhere.

He could feel her lips on his.

Emma Swan was kissing him.

Fuck.

He was still frozen. He needed to move. He needed to react.

And he did – meeting her half a second later, fingers finding their way into her hair and his left hand falling on her hip and she hadn’t actually let go of his jersey, pulling him closer to her until he was groaning against her mouth.

Emma was pressed on her toes, one hand gripping the front of his jersey like it was some sort of hockey-based anchor and Killian nearly gasped when he felt her other hand wrap around his neck and push against his hair and the whole goddamn world was spinning.  
  
Or maybe resetting on a slightly different axis.

She rocked against him, pressing away from the table and he could feel her sigh softly when his hips hit against hers and for half a moment Killian forgot about the rules and the forty fourth graders on the other side of the practice facility and, fuck, they were an hour and a half outside the city.

He couldn’t breathe.

They should probably breathe.

He didn’t really want to.

Emma moved again, shifting her hand slightly until her fingers worked their way towards the laces of his jersey and she pulled away for half a second, shoulders heaving and, no, that wasn’t right. She didn’t have to stop.

He didn’t want her to stop.

Killian moved first and it was greedy and needy and a slew of other adjectives that didn’t belong in the film room of the New York Rangers practice facility, but it made sense too and Emma moved with him when he started kissing her again. She tugged tighter when his tongue brushed against her lower lip, fingers tightening around the nape of his neck.

And it was absolutely tempting fate, teasing whatever force ruled the entire universe and seemed intent on making sure Killian Jones never got exactly what he wanted because he wanted Emma Swan and someone was bound to interrupt them.

He just didn’t expect it to be Roland Locksley.

“Hook,” he yelled, skidding to a stop just inside the door. Killian jumped – actually _jumped_ – and tried to not look like someone who had just spent the better part of the last five minutes kissing the head of the New York Rangers community relations department. “What are you guys doing?”  
  
“Nothing,” he said and Emma mumbled something else, tugging on the ends of her hair and sinking back on the top of the table.

Roland made a noise that a six-year-old probably shouldn’t have known how to make – something that sounded almost exactly like the soft sigh of indignation Regina made whenever Killian put off talking about his contract.

Killian ran his hand through his hair again and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes closed tightly as he spun towards Roland and crouched down to his level as he moved. “What’s the matter, Rol?”  
  
“Dad sent me to find you.”  
  
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes in front of a six-year-old and Emma might have sighed, heels sounding on the floor when she moved and grabbed her walkie-talkie off the massively cushioned chair in front of her.

“Of course he did,” Killian mumbled, trying to smile at Roland. “You get any pizza, mate?”  
  
Roland nodded as enthusiastically as a six-year-old could nod about pizza, eyes lighting up before he realized there was someone else in the room as well. “Who’s that?”  
  
“Rol,” Killian sighed. He almost felt bad for the kid, raised, it seemed, by an entire hockey team, but he’d managed to pick up some manners along the way too.

“Sorry.”  
  
“Hi, Roland,” Emma said, appearing next to Killian’s side almost immediately and she’d crouched down too. “I’m Emma, it’s nice to meet you.”

She held out her hand and Roland stared at it for half a moment before taking it. “Hi,” he said. “Are you Hook’s friend?”  
  
Emma’s eyes darted towards Killian and he tried to keep his gaze trained on the kid in front of him, wearing one of what must have been the hundred Rangers t-shirts he owned. “Uh, yeah,” she answered. “I am. And I work for the team.”  
  
“You like hockey too?”  
  
“I love hockey.”  
  
“It’s my favorite. Dad and Hook are going to win a Cup this season.”  
  
“I hope so.”  
  
Roland’s smile probably could have powered the entirety of Times Square and this was just all _too much,_ the adorable practically reaching out and slapping Killian across the face. He probably had fifty text messages by now.

“Listen, Rol,” Killian said, drawing back his attention quickly. “Why don’t you go tell your dad, I’ll be there in a sec, ok? We’ve got to get back to the city soon anyway.”

Roland nodded seriously and Killian smiled genuinely at him, squeezing his shoulder for good measure before he sprinted back out the hallway, shoes squeaking loudly on the linoleum as he moved.  

He wasn’t sure who moved first or who stood up first, but they were both staring at their respective shoes as soon as Roland was gone. Killian tried to clear his throat and it didn’t really work, coming out more like a sigh than the sure sound he’d been hoping for as he pulled his eyes back up. “That was, uh….”  
  
“A one-time thing,” Emma said quickly and it shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did.

It shouldn’t have been as disappointing as it was.

“I’ve got to get back to Mary Margaret,” Emma continued quickly and she hadn’t actually looked at him yet. “Make sure the kids get back on busses and get the bags we made and stuff. There’s stuff. I’ve got to do.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”  
  
She nodded once, still not meeting his eyes, and walked out the door in three steps, walkie-talkie back on her hip.

Killian sank back into the chair behind him, grabbing his phone and turning it off before even looking to see how many messages and voicemails he’d gotten. He closed his eyes lightly, rubbing his hand over his face and realizing two very important things – he’d broken the rules and it had blown up in his face.

He was absolutely fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so long. I didn't realize it was so long until just now. But, aghhhhhhhh things are happening. And it's not that super, crazy slow burn! I will be honest that, aside from Emma and Killian, Elsa and Killian might be my favorite thing in this whole story. Or, rather, the entire Vankald family. They're going to play a huge role going forward. 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for still being fantastic and loving this story and these words and you're all just the best. @laurenorder is also the best and a delight and a wonderful word-reader.
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

“What about this one?”

Emma turned on the spot and made a face before she could stop herself, clicking her tongue in disapproval. Mary Margaret huffed slightly, but Emma had the sneaky suspicion she’d mostly done it for the reaction – a taffeta-covered disaster with three-quarter sleeves and, somehow, a high neck and ruffles that didn’t even remotely fit into the color scheme they’d decided on a few days before.

“I thought we’d decided on blue,” Emma said, grabbing the dress out of Mary Margaret’s hand and depositing it back on a completely different rack.

“That’s not where that goes.”  
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and the dress had _definitely_ been for the reaction and Emma would have almost appreciated the effort if she wasn’t so busy being completely distracted by, approximately, eighteen other things.

Well, one other thing.

For the last four days.

Ninety-six hours.

Seventy-two of them actually awake.

She didn’t really sleep much.

And her first community relations event had been such a hit – Emma _knew_ the bags and autographed pictures and team-branded merchandise were going to be perfect – that she’d actually been called into Zelena’s office the next day to talk about her plans for the rest of the season.

She had plans.

A charity game and bringing more kids to another practice next week and Garden of Dreams stuff, not to mention the annual event they held on 34th Street just before the home opener and then there was in-season stuff and Casino Night and playoff stuff and she needed to come up with a barebones plans on the off chance that this stupid team did actually go to the Cup Finals.

Zelena loved them all, told her so the day after the practice facility event and she wanted to take this to the _next level_. She’d used those words.

_The next level._

Whatever that meant.

Emma needed to make a list. Or make another list. She’d made so many lists – of the same things, all of the same thoughts and ideas and plans pooling in the back of her head like they’d taken up residency there – she was half certain Mary Margaret was going to go insane if she found another sheet of paper crammed into the corner of her couch.

Oh, she needed to do that too.

Emma was still sleeping on Mary Margaret’s couch – and for as generous as Mary Margaret had been with her couch, Emma had a crick in her spine that she was positive wouldn’t go away until she stopped sleeping on the couch and found her own apartment.

She was distracted. By all of those things. And, maybe, that one other thing. Definitely that one other thing.

It didn’t matter. There were rules. She’d come up with rules and regulations and she wasn’t going to break either one of them.

Again.

She wasn’t going to break them again, since, well, she’d already done it once.

And that was enough.

Of course it was. Absolutely. She hadn’t spent the seventy-two hours she was actually awake considering how _nice_ breaking the rules had been and that wasn’t even really a good enough word for it.

It was better than nice.

It was...overwhelming.

That was probably the best word for it. He was overwhelming and his eyes were too blue and he was too goddamn good looking with that stupid jersey and a family that wouldn’t stop texting him and he’d _volunteered_ to talk about all of that even when she hadn’t known about Liam or how guilty he still felt.

Fuck.

God fucking damnit.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asked, hand falling on her wrist and she actually jumped from the word and the contact, breath catching in her throat as she stumbled over her own feet. “Did you hear anything I just said?”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
She sighed, crossing her arms lightly and eyeing the dress in Mary Margaret’s hands. “That one’s not bad,” Emma said, nodding towards the fabric and it fit the color scheme and didn’t actually have any ruffles.

“You’re not exactly a gown person.”  
  
“You want me to wear a gown?”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret promised, holding the dress up against Emma and humming in approval when it, apparently, didn’t look horrible in front of the clothes she was still wearing. “And we’re getting married outside, you can’t really wear a gown.”   
  
“What?”

Mary Margaret hummed again, smile dancing on the corners of her lips. Emma didn’t know that. Or maybe they’d told her that. God, she was a horrible friend. A horrible, distracted friend who should probably get more than six hours of sleep a night.

And stop thinking about Killian Jones’ lips.

Definitely the second.

“Did you know you can actually get married in Central Park for, like, twenty dollars?” Mary Margaret asked, but there was something in the corner of her eye that made Emma certain they were steamrolling towards a conversation she didn’t really want to have.

“That so?”  
  
“Yup. You print out a permit and you sign the permit and you give the city twenty bucks and, boom, you’re married.”   
  
“Boom?”   
  
“Well, I mean you sign more papers and you need someone to actually marry you, but you get where I’m going with this.”   
  
“And that’s what you want?” Emma asked speculatively, eyeing Mary Margaret like she was waiting for the camera crew to come out and shout that this had all been some sort of massive joke and she actually _did_ have to wear a gown.

Not that she wouldn’t have done it – if that’s what Mary Margaret wanted. She probably would have done anything Mary Margaret asked her to at this point, even if she hadn’t overstayed her welcome on her couch and David hadn't actually started buying her Pop-Tarts whenever he went to the store, like she was a permanent fixture in their apartment.  

Mary Margaret shrugged, as if she hadn’t been considering her wedding since before she met Emma. And that was enough to draw her attention back in full – momentarily forgetting community events and meeting with front office bigwigs and the way Killian Jones’s hands felt in her hair.

“Come here,” Emma said, tugging the dress out of Mary Margaret’s vice-like grip and draping over her arm. She pulled her towards a wall in this very expensive bridal boutique and sank down onto the ground, ignoring Mary Margaret’s vaguely scandalized expression when Emma stretched her legs out and the bottom of the dress brushed along the carpet. “Sit down. Talk to me.”  
  
“At least get the dress off the floor.”   
  
Emma held the hanger up in front of her and Mary Margaret grabbed it quickly, eyes darting around like they were going to be arrested for _improper bridal boutique behavior_ by whoever might be in charge of monitoring something like that. She hooked the dress on another rack and eyed Emma again before sinking down onto the ground as well, cross-legged, like one of her fourth-graders.

“What’s really going on?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Reese’s, come on. Central Park? For real?” Another shrug. Emma widened her eyes and she'd absolutely been the worst friend in the world because she hadn’t noticed any of this and there were bags under Mary Margaret’s eyes and a tiny crease in between her eyebrows that looked like it had been there for the last four days.

“Ruth has some ideas,” Mary Margaret finally said, whispering out the words like David’s mother was lurking in between several dozen bridesmaids dresses.

“About?”  
  
“The wedding. And the reception. And the color scheme. And probably where we should go on our honeymoon, but we haven’t gotten that far in the conversations yet.”   
  
“Where are you guys going to go on your honeymoon?”   
  
“Emma!”

She grinned, reaching out and squeezing Mary Margaret’s knee. “So, Ruth’s being a stereotype. She’s always kind of been like that.”  
  
It wasn’t a lie – Ruth Nolan was fiercely protective of her son, her _only_ son, and it didn’t really surprise Emma that she’d have more than her fair share of opinions on the way that only son got married. It did, however, surprise her that Mary Margaret was listening to any of them.

If there was one thing Emma had always loved about Mary Margaret, aside from her willingness to share her couch, it was her determination. Mary Margaret wanted what she wanted and she was going to get what she wanted and she’d probably help two dozen other people get what they wanted along the way.

She was _nice_ in a way Emma was certain people weren’t ever nice, a perpetual ray of sunshine and belief and if anyone was going to get the wedding of her dreams it was going to be Mary Margaret Blanchard, soon-to-be Nolan.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mary Margaret mumbled, words falling mostly into the very expensive carpet they were still sitting on. “This is different though. You know she wants me to come to Carlisle to try on dresses, something about how she wants to be there when I pick and I just…ugh.”  
  
Emma tried not to laugh. She really did. But that might have been the first time Mary Margaret had said the word _ugh_ in the last ten years and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. “Carlisle?” Emma repeated. “Do they have stores there?”   
  
“It’s Pennsylvania,” Mary Margaret shrugged, still trying to rationalize. “I’m sure there are stores somewhere even if it’s not actually in Carlisle.”   
  
“Why can’t she come here?”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“Well, I mean, you’re here and David’s here and when’s the last time Ruth was actually in New York? Have her come here and try on dresses and she can even help pick a venue and maybe taste-test some cake or something. Do they do that in real life or is that only in movie montages?”   
  
“No, that happens in real life too.”  
  
“Well then have her do that. And sign me up for the cake testing thing too. I’m down for that.” Mary Margaret let out a shaky laugh, tugging her lips behind her teeth and she was blinking quicker than normal. “What?” Emma asked, realizing she hadn’t actually moved her hand. God, they were still sitting on the floor.

“You know I didn’t even think of that? I was just going to go to Carlisle.”  
  
“See, that’s because you’re nice. Tell Ruth to come up here. I’ll even give up my couch so she can stay with you.”   
  
“No, no, no,” Mary Margaret said quickly and, that time, Emma had mostly done it for the reaction. “There are hotels. And you’re some kind of wedding-planning lifesaver.” Emma rolled her eyes, bumping her head on the wall when moved backwards. “I’m serious. I just...I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you’re in New York and the kids haven’t stopped talking about the practice facility. They were even more psyched about the Q&A thing than getting out on the ice. That kind of surprised me.”

Emma blinked and her hand moved towards her hair out of instinct – a tell she’d had for as long as she could remember, a nervous habit that Mary Margaret had picked up on approximately two hours after they met each other at freshman orientation and her eyes widened slightly when it happened on the floor of this boutique.

“What?” Mary Margaret asked, confusion settling into her gaze and Emma couldn’t actually take a deep breath. Everything felt too tight and too anxious and for as distracted as she had been thinking about everything that had happened in the film room – and maybe everything that _hadn’t_ happened in the film room because she’d _walked away,_ God – she still couldn’t quite believe how _easy_ it had been.

That was the problem, she thought, the realization hitting her like a wave or an earthquake or some other form of natural disaster. He’d been charming and funny and he’d been good with the kids and he’d made her smile – genuinely smile.

Maybe she should text him.

But even just the concept of a phone suddenly felt very heavy and it wasn’t even in her pocket because it was a work phone and she didn’t really need it because today was _technically_ her day off and she was supposed to be focused on wedding plans and actually being a competent maid of honor.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret said and it didn’t sound like the first time she’d repeated her name.

“Yeah?”  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?”   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
Mary Margaret lowered her eyebrows and Emma knew if they hadn’t been sitting on the floor she probably would have settled into teacher pose – feet just a bit wider apart than usual and hands on her hips and eyes narrowed just enough to be bordering on menacing. And Emma totally would have caved because, all things considered, she felt a bit like a nine-year-old with a crush.

“Really,” Emma said, waving her hands through the air like that somehow helped proved her point. “Nothing.”  
  
“You know, you never actually got any pizza.”   
  
“Is that code for something?”   
  
“It means you didn’t come back from the film room for awhile after I left with the kids. And I might have seen Robin send someone wearing Rangers-branded merchandise in that direction at some point.”   
  
“That was his kid,” Emma said quickly and her jaw hung open when she realized what she done. Mary Margaret actually gasped.

“What?”  
  
“You didn’t know that already?”   
  
“I told you, we’re not like _part_ of this team. I know Ariel. I’ve met Killian a couple of times. That’s really all there is to it. Why was Robin sending his kid after you?”   
  
Emma widened her eyes and she really didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to commandeer the conversation, but Mary Margaret had somehow figured out a way to _teacher pose_ while still sitting down and her shoulders slumped in defeat before she’d even tried to come up with any kind of argument.

“Alright,” Emma said pointedly and Mary Margaret snapped to attention. “I’m going to tell you something and I need you not to freak out because we’re still in this very expensive store and we’ve still got to try on dresses, but I also need to tell someone and it might explain why I’ve been the worst friend in the world for the last four days.”  
  
“You haven’t been the worst friend in anything in the last four days.”   
  
“I’m serious, Reese’s, no freaking out. Or gloating. Especially gloating.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s eyebrows somehow got even lower and she tilted her head in confusion. “Gloating?”   
  
Emma nodded and tried to take a deep breath – it still didn’t work. “I kissed Killian,” she said, rushing over the words and staring at her shoes and Mary Margaret’s gasp probably could have been heard in every single corner of the entire city.

“What?” she whispered, hissing out the word and her eyes were so wide Emma was concerned they’d actually fall out on the very expensive carpet.

“I said not to freak out.”  
  
“I’m not.” Emma sighed and pressed her fingers into her temples, certain the headache was on its way. “Ok, ok,” Mary Margaret continued and her voice sounded just a bit more even now. “Before Robin sent his kid?”

Emma nodded. “Like right before. Like in the action when the kid showed up in the film room.”  
  
“Did he see?”   
  
“I don’t think so.”   
  
Mary Margaret hummed in the back her throat, lips twisted like she was thinking something and for one vaguely terrifying moment Emma was half convinced they were back on the Swan-Jones wedding train. “Why?" she asked and that wasn’t the question Emma had been expecting at all.

“What?”  
  
“Why’d you do it? I mean you said you kissed him, right?”

Emma waved her hands again and made some sort of contradictory noise that wasn’t really an answer. “I mean, yeah, at first.”  
  
“At first?”   
  
“Oh my God, Reese’s if you don’t stop repeating everything I’m saying I will actually walk out of this store.”

“I’m just confused.”  
  
“That should be my tagline at this point,” Emma mumbled.

“I thought you didn’t like him.”  
  
“I never said that.”   
  
“You said you were playing along with the set-up.”

The headache had arrived in full-force, with cymbals and a marching band and possibly several mac trucks, all of them intent on making Emma feel as if her skull was about to crack in half. Mary Margaret looked at her apprehensively.

“Excuse me,” a voice said and Emma snapped her head up to find a store clerk staring at them as if they’d been loitering there for the last twenty minutes. “You can’t sit here.”  
  
“Relax,” Mary Margaret muttered and Emma’s jaw fell back open. “We’ve got an appointment. We’re just kind of busy right now.”   
  
The woman stuttered over something that sounded like words, but Mary Margaret glanced at her over her shoulder and there must have been something in her gaze because they were alone again half a moment later, surrounded by dresses who didn’t seem too concerned that they were now ten minutes late for that appointment.

“Jeez, Reese’s,” Emma mumbled and Mary Margaret shot her a smile.

“Do you really like him?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.”  
  
“But you kissed him.”   
  
“I was there.”   
  
“So you must…”   
  
“Be vaguely attracted to him? Because that was all that was.” Mary Margaret twisted her lips and stared at Emma like the liar she absolutely was, but she didn’t actually say anything and that was probably worse than actually having an opinion. Emma groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing slightly when she hit her head again.

“He’s nice,” Emma whispered after what felt like an eternity of silence in between overpriced dresses. “But I’ve...I’m not doing this again.”  
  
“Doing what again?”   
  
Emma’s eyes snapped open and Mary Margaret sighed and neither one of them actually needed an answer to that question.

If there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was finding a way to not believe in something – and after a lifetime of coming up short and _almosts,_ the walls around Emma were so high she almost couldn’t see over them.

She had Mary Margaret and David and even sometimes Ruth, who felt like she needed to be some sort of surrogate mother to everyone and, now, she had Ruby and a job that didn’t make her want to pull her hair out every day at five o’clock.

She was good.

This was good.

She didn’t even feel like she was transitioning anymore.

The last thing she needed was to feel _something_ about the captain of the New York Rangers.

So she was attracted to him.

So what.

She was attracted to Leonardo DiCaprio when she was nine years old and she’d never felt some sort of deep need to do anything about that.

The same held true for Killian Jones.

Of course she’d never actually kissed Leonardo DiCaprio, had never felt his hands on her hips or his lips on hers and she was fairly positive she’d never made Leonardo DiCaprio actually groan against her mouth and, God, what would have happened if Roland Locksley hadn’t shown up?

They’d probably still be kissing in the film room upstate.

Killian Jones was very good at kissing.

There were other people who were good at kissing. Leonardo DiCaprio was probably good at kissing. She didn’t want to kiss Leonardo DiCaprio. She wanted to kiss Killian Jones. Again. And it was all she’d really thought about for the last four days.

Emma was a mess.

“How was it?” Mary Margaret asked, snapping Emma out of her thoughts and making her actually choke on the air in her lungs.

“For real, Reese’s? What is this sixth grade?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “He’s not a bad looking guy. It was probably good, right?”   
  
“Do those two things go together?”   
  
“You tell me.”

Emma sighed, but her silence was as much an answer as actually saying the words – _good, great, best she’d had since….ever_ – and Mary Margaret actually had the audacity to grin at her. “What happened after Roland Locksley showed up?”  
  
Emma groaned and hissed in her breath through clenched teeth, which only seemed to make the headache worse. “I, uh, told him that it was a one-time thing and then I...walked away.”   
  
Mary Margaret just looked sad. “Patented Emma Swan.”   
  
“Come on, that’s almost not fair.”   
  
“Almost.”   
  
“It’s not like it mattered to him. It was just one kiss.”   
  
One kiss that she couldn’t stop thinking about. One kiss that had seemed to shake the entire world on its metaphorical axis and made his eyes look even bluer and she’d left his hair sticking up in half a dozen different directions after.

Had she used his jersey as leverage?  
  
She might have. She remembered tugging on it, the feel of that stupid ‘C’ patch slightly rougher in her hands than the rest of the fabric and she couldn’t really remember the rest of it, had been far too focused on getting him to make that one particular sound again.

“Did you know he was a foster kid too?” Emma asked suddenly and Mary Margaret’s head snapped up when she shook it. “Yeah,” she continued, tugging on her lower lip and that might have been more important than the kiss or how nice it had been to actually have someone very obviously want to kiss her.

“He told you that?” Mary Margaret asked, letting out a low whistle when Emma nodded.

“He’s got a whole family too. The brother, Liam, his name is Liam, and two sisters and there were twins involved somewhere and even Robin’s kid seemed to know him on some sort of _always around_ level. He practically launched himself at Killian when he ran into the film room.”  
  
“It’s a different kind of team than LA.”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma mumbled. “I’m getting that.”

The store clerk was back and had added toe-tapping to the glaring and the waiting and Emma made a significant face at Mary Margaret who just rolled her eyes. “I guess we better try on some dresses,” she said.

“No gowns.”

“That won’t work for Central Park.”  
  
“That was for real?”   
  
“There’s a castle in Central Park, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, pushing herself up off the ground and holding her hand out. Emma took it, grin spreading across her face and it was so perfect she couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“You’re going to get married at a castle?”  
  
“And you don’t have to wear a gown.”   
  
“Perfect.”

* * *

She bought a dress.

That hadn’t really been the plan – they were supposed to be getting ideas and sticking to some sort of early-summer blue color scheme, whatever that meant – but Emma had tried on the dress and the clerk had actually gasped and Mary Margaret had tears in her eyes and it had been as perfect as the idea of holding a Blanchard-Nolan wedding at a castle in Central Park. She probably wouldn’t even need to get alterations.

That felt like some sort of dress-related sign and at this point Emma was willing to accept just about anything from the universe.

It was blue.

Of course it was blue.

But it wasn’t _Rangers_ blue and Emma kind of hated herself for even considering that phrase, but it was lighter than the blue seats in the Garden and it hit just below her knees and cinched around her waist and, well, it fit.

It fit really well.

Mary Margaret was totally crying.

“Stop it, Reese’s,” Emma laughed, glancing up at her tearful reflection in the mirrors she’d been paraded in front of. “It’s just a dress.”  
  
“I know, I know, it just looks really good.”   
  
“Not half bad, huh?”

“Not by a long shot.”

So she bought the dress and only cringed slightly when they swiped her credit card, still not entirely used to the new job or the paycheck that had showed up in her bank account two days before.

No more transitioning.

Emma Swan was going to put down some goddamn roots. And she was going to wear this very well-fitting dress at a castle in Central Park and smile for pictures and she _totally_ wasn’t jealous. At all.

It was going to be fine. Great. It was going to be _great._

And Emma was half certain Mary Margaret was ready to drop the conversation about Killian Jones and how good he was at kissing, walking towards the subway with a dress bag clutched in her hands. It was the other half that, apparently, was the problem.

“You know he’s not like the other two,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, catching Emma’s wrist and staring at her meaningfully.

“Who?”  
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Reese’s.”   
  
“I know, I know no planning and setting up and I’m not, really, I’m just saying. He’s a good guy and he’s always been good to Ariel and he’s always kind of been odd man out on the team.”   
  
“Just because he’s the only person on this team who doesn’t want to date within Madison Square Garden doesn’t make him particularly odd.”

“I’m not saying that,” Mary Margaret argued and Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m not. I’m just saying…”  
  
“What?”   
  
“He told you about Liam.”   
  
“David told me about Liam.”   
  
“He told you about his family. The foster parents and the sisters.”   
  
Emma scrunched her nose and Mary Margaret looked triumphant on the corner of Delancey Street. “He was being friendly.”   
  
“You tell him anything like that?”   
  
Of course not.

Emma had barely even told Mary Margaret that and it had taken four years of shared dorm room and several drunken nights before she’d even felt remotely comfortable entertaining the idea of bringing up her past.

The past was messy and disappointing and if there was one thing Emma didn’t do it was wallow. She usually ran away from the wallowing.

And everything else.

“Yeah, I figured,” Mary Margaret muttered. “I’m not saying you have to or even that you should, but he’s not like the other two and, well, maybe you should text him. It’s not bad to have another friend, at least.”  
  
It wasn’t – friends were good and necessary and far too few in Emma’s life if she were being completely and depressingly honest. Except some tiny voice in the back of her mind didn’t really want to kiss any of her friends the way she wanted to kiss Killian Jones.

A lot.

She wanted to kiss him a lot.

Emma groaned and her hand was halfway in her bag, ready to grab her phone and text him and say _something_ if only to get Mary Margaret off her back, when she realized, rather suddenly, that she didn’t have her phone.

She had _her_ phone, but she didn’t have her work phone, the one people from the Garden were supposed to contact her on. The one with Killian’s number in it.

“Fucking fuck,” Emma mumbled under her breath, earning a quiet gasp from Mary Margaret. “I left my phone at the Garden.”

“You had your phone two seconds ago in the store.”  
  
“Nah, my work phone.”   
  
“Why do you need your work phone?” Emma eyed her meaningfully and this time the gasp was from understanding instead of a slightly antiquated reaction to swearing on the middle of the sidewalk. “So…you need it then?”   
  
“You have all the tact of blunt force trauma.”   
  
“Adorable.”

“I’m not agreeing to this, you know,” Emma said and she wasn’t sure why she was putting up such a fight. Old habits. They die hard. Or never die. Or come back from the dead. Zombie habits. She had zombie habits.

“Of course not.”

“I just, you know, need my phone.”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“I’ve got that Garden of Dreams thing coming up.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“And that’s the only number Zelena has for me.”

“Makes sense.”  
  
“So...I should probably go get my phone.”   
  
“Probably.”

Emma nodded once, trying to swallow down the metaphorical butterflies that were trying to work their way out of her stomach and up her throat and, well, that was a disgusting thought. And somewhere in between butterflies and zombie habits and that knowing look on Mary Margaret’s face, she’d found some sort of determination to _prove something_ and that might have just been her mile-wide stubborn streak, but Emma didn’t care.

She needed her phone.

And if she happened to see anyone else at the Garden, well, fine. They could talk about it. Like adults. Mature adults.

One mature adult.

Emma had run away.

“You know you could probably get uptown quicker if you hailed a cab,” Mary Margaret muttered and she was very clearly trying not to smile. “Come on, give me the dress and go get your _phone_ and I’ll, uh, meet you at home. Ok?”  
  
“It’s your home, Reese’s. I’m just commandeering your couch.”   
  
“You know that’s not true. You are welcome to that couch for the rest of your life if you want.”   
  
“I will be off the couch before you and David get married. At least. If only for the sake of my own neck.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed, pulling the dress bag out of Emma’s hands and resting it on her shoulder. “Take a cab and then come home and..share.”   
  
“It’s just a phone.”   
  
“Yup,” Mary Margaret agreed, throwing out her arm towards the street and a cab stopped almost immediately.

“That was impressive,” Emma muttered, sliding into the backseat and Mary Margaret just shrugged.

“Have fun or something.”  
  
She was blushing – Emma wasn’t certain she’d blushed since she was fourteen, but she was blushing and Mary Margaret still had that knowing smile on her face and the cab driver was waiting for instructions. “Uh, the Garden, thanks,” Emma sputtered as Mary Margaret slammed the door shut and the cab cut someone else off on its way back into uptown traffic.

It took fifteen minutes to skid to a stop in front of the Garden and the cab driver actually felt the need to turn around and inform her that they were _there,_ like Emma couldn’t see the entire stupid arena and fifty-story building in front of her.

“Thanks,” she said quickly, pushing the only cash in her wallet towards the driver and, maybe, running out of the cab and it was a weird sensation, running towards something instead of away from it and this wasn't just about the phone.

It should have been just about the phone.

She did have a Garden of Dreams thing coming up, that hadn’t been a lie, and Zelena did have her actual number, but she’d never texted on that and Emma was being almost responsible on her one day off that week, but it also wasn’t _entirely_ about the phone and she couldn’t even lie to herself.

The nerves in the pit of her stomach made that difficult.

She swiped her ID over the security marker just inside the doors and the elevator ride to her office on the 25th floor might have been the longest of her entire life, complete with arms crossed over her chest and toe tapping and she tugged her keys out of her bag while she was walking down the hall just to make sure she didn’t waste any time.

And she didn’t.

Her phone was sitting on her desk where she’d left it the night before and it hadn’t actually died, which seemed to fit into the theme of _signs_ she kept finding and, well, that was that. She’d gotten her phone.

Emma’s fingers hovered over the screen for half a moment, thumb shifting back and forth until her knuckle actually cracked. She ran her tongue over her lips and this was _stupid_ – it was a text message. She could send a text message.

She ran an entire department for an NHL team.

She could send a text message.

“Come on, Emma,” she mumbled and now she was talking to herself and she’d lost all control of this day, seeing signs where there weren’t any and she _never_ took a cab anywhere, least of all to go get a work phone she didn’t _actually_ need to text the captain of that same NHL team she worked for.

“Swan?”  
  
Well, fuck.

Emma rolled her head to the side to find him leaning against the open doorway to her office, feet crossed at the ankles and he was wearing sneakers, but he had his full uniform on, pads and all, and a stick in his hand.

She bit her lip and nearly dropped her phone. “Hey,” Emma said, tugging her hair back over her shoulder and Killian’s eyes fell to her fingers when the smile started to inch across her face. She put her phone down on the desk before she could actually drop it. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I work here.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she was smiling and this would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamn charming. And he knew he was charming. He totally knew.

“Yeah, but you don’t exactly look like you just came off the ice,” Emma pointed out.  
  
“Maybe I just always look this good, even after practice.”

“You’re wearing sneakers.”  
  
“Ah, nothing gets past you, does it, Swan?” Emma shrugged, but it was mostly so she didn’t do something ridiculous like giggle and she’d lost control of the situation before the situation had really even started. “You’re right, by the way, although not completely. I did just come off the ice, but not practice ice.”   
  
“I don’t get it.”   
  
“You know those programs they sell for like $50 to fans?” She nodded. “Today was school picture day.”

She laughed anyway and it wasn’t quite a giggle, but she couldn’t get the smile off her face and he hesitated for half a beat before walking into her office. And somewhere in the back of her mind Emma dimly recalled Ruby mentioning that, organizing the day and complaining about players not being particularly gung-ho about posing for $50 program-photos in full uniform and she probably should have remembered that.

“I kind of thought you’d be there,” Killian said and Emma didn’t think she imagined the note of hope in his voice or the way his eyes ducked down towards the floor when he took another step towards her, moving in slow motion and making her pulse thud in her veins. He’d left the stick propped up against the door, one hand in his hair and the other trained at his side, pressed against his shorts like he was trying not to rest it on her waist again.

“That’s more media and PR than community relations,” Emma mumbled, sinking onto the edge of her desk. “I just get to use those photos to promo things later.”

“Are there things? For you to promo later?”  
  
“Enough to make my head spin,” she laughed. “We’re doing some stuff next week when you guys practice here, actually. GD stuff, so plan to be on your best behavior. Why? Are you volunteering again?”   
  
She tried to keep her voice light, to keep that breezy sense of confidence in the question and make it seem like it didn’t matter or she didn’t care if he did volunteer, but it didn’t really work. “Are you asking?” Killian countered and this all felt a bit like déjà vu. He was very close to her knees again.

“Maybe.”  
  
He blinked once and the smile, somehow, got more pronounced when he rocked closer to her. He didn’t move his hands though, didn’t even look at her lips, just met her gaze straight on and nodded thoughtfully like he was considering his choice of words carefully.

“I could do that,” he said and the words seemed to settle into Emma’s very center or match up with her heartbeat or something equally absurd that sounded like something Mary Margaret would have said while sitting on the floor of a Lower East Side bridal boutique. She’d never thought that before.   
  
“Yeah?”

“I don’t see why not,” Killian said. “Face of the franchise or something like that.”  
  
Emma scoffed and there hadn’t really been any tension to break, but everything felt a bit easier and her shoulders weren’t as straight when she moved towards him, hand falling on his without a word. “That ego,” she mumbled.

“I am on the cover of the program.”

“And the side of the Garden.”

“That’s more for the tourists.”  
  
“You mean to tell me you don’t actually charge $50 to take a selfie with your lifesize photo on 33rd Street?”

Killian rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging on the ends of his lips and he rocked towards Emma when he looked at her, or maybe she just _wanted_ him to. She hadn’t quite decided. She should probably decide.

“What is it you’re suggesting, love?” He really shouldn’t be able to smile like that, she thought – all wide and easy and like he actually enjoyed talking to her, the same person who’d ignored him for a week and then jumped him in the film room and then ignored him for another four days.

Emma shrugged and he bristled a bit at that, smile faltering for half a moment and eyes going just a bit more narrow than they should have been. She couldn’t quite see the blue when he did that and then she kind of hated herself for even thinking something that ridiculous.

“Why are you here, Swan?” Killian asked. “If you didn’t have to organize overpriced photo shoots?”  
  
“Did they make you actually pose?”   
  
“Yes and that didn’t answer my question.”

She scrunched her nose, teeth sinking into her bottom lip so she didn’t laugh again and her cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so much. “It’s technically my day off.”  
  
“Still didn’t answer my question.”

“I was with Reese’s downtown, dress shopping, and I forgot my phone.”  
  
“Dress shopping?”   
  
“That’s what you got out of that?”   
  
“That’s what I’m taking out of it.”   
  
Emma tried to take a deep breath – in through her nose, out through her mouth – but it kind of stuttered a bit and the heel of her boot skidded against the floor when she moved, shoulders shaking just a bit with laughter.

Jeez. He was charming.

And he was going to think she was insane if she kept laughing this much, but he kept looking at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day and, possibly longer than that, and neither one of them had mentioned the film room and maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe they could actually just be friends.

“It’s very blue,” Emma said. “But it’s not bad. As far as maid of honor dresses go.”  
  
“I’m sure you’d look good in any dress Mary Margaret forced you in.”   
  
Emma’s mouth dropped open a fraction of an inch and she didn’t laugh, kind of just exhaled, breath rushing out of her in one vaguely loud huff. Killian’s eyes went wide, hand back in his hair and gaze back on his sneakers as he took a step away from her like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d said.

That whole friends idea was going great.

Her lip was bleeding. She had actually bitten her lip and she was moving before she’d even thought about it, one hand on his jersey and the other wrapped around his neck and he blinked twice before she kissed him again.

It took approximately two seconds for him to respond, hands back on her waist and fingers ghosting along the edge of her shirt and Emma didn’t have heels on this time, pressed up on tiptoes to reach him and push her hands into his hair.

And he made _that_ noise again – that mix between a sigh and a groan and something that might have been classified as want and Emma wanted him too, maybe a bit more desperately than she’d allowed herself to believe in the last ninety-six hours.

The door was still open.

There was a hockey stick propped up against her office door and this hadn’t really been the plan, but he kept smiling at her and making her laugh and he thought she’d look good _in whatever_ and Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually believed a compliment.

She believed Killian Jones.

Easily.

As easily as, it appeared, it was to fall back into kissing him.

His tongue did something wholly unfair against her bottom lip and Emma’s breath caught in her throat and everything seemed to shift again and all her talk had been just that, complete talk, because she was absolutely breaking the rules.

She would probably keep doing it.

Eventually she had to breathe and Emma pulled herself away, ignoring the quiet sigh Killian let out when she did, but he didn’t actually let her move too far, hands tightening just a bit on her hips and she could feel fingers on skin when her shirt moved a very particular way.

It made her gasp.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, not sure what else to say and not expecting him to laugh at the word. “What?”  
  
“Did you just honestly apologize for kissing me, love?” Killian asked, eyebrows low when he leaned back to stare at her skeptically. Emma shrugged, mouth twisted into a grimace. “You don’t need to do that,” he added, voice soft and the sound settled into the pit of her stomach, smothering out the inexplicable nerves that had been there a few minutes before.

“I mean I did say one-time thing.”  
  
“Don’t forget the never calling either,” Killian said, muttering the words against her ear when he dragged his lips across her jaw. She gasped again. “A guy could get a complex.”   
  
“It’s just...this,” Emma waved her hand next to them, still pressed up against the front of her desk and the door was still wide open. “There are supposed to be rules.”

“A fact I’m aware of.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And I told you not to apologize for kissing me.”   
  
Emma shifted and he groaned slightly when she moved her hips to try and actually sit on the desk again, eyeing her meaningfully and it was all blue and emotional and he didn’t blink when he looked at her. He looked confident.

“So…” Emma mumbled, trailing off on the word. Killian’s hand was was still on her hip, fingers finding skin just above the top of her jeans and they tightened slightly when he smiled at her. _Smirked at her._

He kept smirking at her.

“So,” Killian repeated and somewhere in between the kissing and the being vaguely charmed, Emma was also slightly annoyed because he appeared to enjoy making her sigh dramatically as much he kept trying to get her to laugh.

“The rules.”  
  
“Personal or?”   
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows, confusion shooting through her and maybe something that also might have been fear because there were only three people in the entire city of New York who knew _exactly_ what had happened with Neal. And one of them just happened to work at Madison Square Garden and everyone on this team seemed to know everything about each other.

“I mean,” Emma muttered, “I don’t think it’s really covered in the employee handbook, but HR could probably figure it out. You don’t happen to know anyone in that department do you? Someone who’s also married to an assistant coach or knows Ariel and eats at that restaurant too?”  
  
Killian eyed her meaningfully and she’d jumped so quickly from making out in her office to the deep end of sarcasm that Emma was certain she actually had whiplash. “I don’t know anyone in HR, actually,” he said lightly and she could practically feel the sarcasm evaporate and she was firmly back back in square of being charmed.

“Which leaves us?”  
  
He moved before she was ready for it, hand gripping her waist just a bit tighter than normal, thumb brushing along the bottom of her spine and _he_ kissed her.

And Emma might have gasped or tried to take another deep breath and, well, if that was where it left them, then she wasn’t going to argue with it. She shifted against him, body fitting against his hips and Killian’s hand was back in her hair and Emma’s arm had found its way back around his waist and she could feel him _everywhere_ – in the middle of her office, two weeks after she’d started a brand-new job and the door was still open.

She’d, officially, lost control of her life.

It wasn’t quite as... _as_ as it had been before, softer and more cautious and she could feel the nerves and the distinct lack of definition. Neither one of them moved once they’d stopped doing...whatever this was – _making out,_ her mind supplied, the clinical definition of this was making out – and they were wholly within each other’s space when the heels came down the hallway and stopped in the still-open doorway.

“Em?” Ruby asked and Killian took a shaky step away from her, eyes boring a hole in the floor. Ruby’s eyes scanned across the office and if she had any suspicions as to what had been going on five seconds before she didn’t actually voice them. Emma thanked several different religious figures for that. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I forgot my phone.”   
  
Ruby pursed her lips, gaze darting back towards Killian, who hadn’t actually said anything in what felt like several hours. “Did you get a dress?”

“Yup. It’s very blue.”

“Ugh, I tried to get her off that scheme and no luck.”  
  
“Mary Margaret can be very determined,” Emma muttered, eyes flashing back towards the professional hockey player just a few feet away from her. God, she needed Ruby to get out of her office. And then maybe Emma needed to get out of her office. It was very warm in there. What a fucking cliché.

“Right, right,” Ruby continued, lower lip sticking out slightly. She absolutely knew what she’d almost walked into. God. “Anyway, I came up here because Killian tried to blow off team shoots and Mulan’s having a conniption downstairs.”  
  
“You tried to blow off team shoots?” Emma repeated and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her, smile back on his face and her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t since she was a teenager.

He shrugged, tugging on the bottom of his jersey. “It’s just been a lot of photos.”  
  
“It’s the same every year, Killian,” Ruby said. “I”m not sure why you thought this year would be different.”   
  
Another shrug. Ruby groaned, rolling her eyes as she stalked back towards the hallway. “Three minutes or I’ll get Mulan up here and she’ll beat you up.”   
  
“She probably could,” Killian agreed as Ruby’s heels turned faint and he rocked back his heels.

“Seems wrong to tempt fate again, then,” Emma said.   
  
“Were we tempting fate before?”   
  
“Twice now.”   
  
“I’d be willing to go for a third.”   
  
Her stomach was doing somersaults and could probably win Olympic gold in the all-around at this point, but Emma just pressed her lips together and tried to not laugh like some sort of vaguely romantic lunatic.

“Go take your team photo, Jones. I want it for my GD event later this week, anyway.”  
  
He cocked one eyebrow and nodded slowly, taking a step away from her to grab his stick behind his back. “Ah, well, of course then. I’m glad you got your phone, Swan.”   
  
She’d moved with him almost unconsciously, following him back towards the doorway and apparently, _fuck the rules,_ because she pressed up on her toes and appreciated the way Killian’s eyes widened slightly before she brushed her lips across his. “I’ll see you later,” she said and he nodded once again.

* * *

She sank into the corner of Mary Margaret’s couch, hair piled on her head and mug of hot chocolate in her hand and two different cell phones sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Emma pulled her feet up underneath her, staring at both phones like they held the secrets to the entire universe.

She wasn’t normally this dramatic.

She sighed, trying to make sure it wasn’t too loud with Mary Margaret and David asleep just around the corner, and grabbed the work phone in front of her, hitting two buttons and typing before she could really think about it.

That appeared to be a trend for the day.

**How’d it go?**

It took twenty-two seconds for him to respond and she could _hear_ the smirk in his text.

_I’m going to assume this 212 number is you Swan and not some crazed stalker._

**Do you get a lot of stalkers?**

_Do you always ask frustratingly vague questions without actually saying who you are?_

**You knew it was me.**

_Ask a more specific question._

**Did Mulan kill you?  
** **  
** _Mulan loves me._

**When you don’t blow off team photo shoots.**

_I went back. That seems to fly in the face of your argument. And it was fine. I’ll steal you a program._

**I could probably steal one myself. Or get one. I’d probably get one, right?  
** **  
** _Probably._

It went on like that for what felt like half the night, texting back and forth like they were teenagers and she fell asleep somewhere in the realm of two in the morning, hot chocolate long gone and phone clutched in her hand.

And when her alarm went off the next morning – far too early and far too loudly – Emma had another message on her work phone.

_I’m glad you got your phone, Swan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you can see, this is not my usual slow burn. This is more like...make out everywhere all the time kind of burn. I am still stunned by the fantastic response to this story and just how absolutely wonderful you all are. I'm a constant smiling mess of emotions. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes all of this make sense. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

“Make a fist.”  
  
Killian lifted his eyes away from his phone – and the fifteen text messages he had – to stare pointedly at Ariel and he tried not to groan. She didn’t move. Of course she didn’t. She never moved. She was a wall, impenetrable to groans and glares and Killian’s desire to get out of this chair and back on the ice.

“Red, I have made a fist ten times today at least,” Killian sighed, doing it anyway as soon as Ariel raised one eyebrow and brushed her hair off her shoulders.

He knew that look.

He’d already lost.

“So do it eleven times then,” she said, tapping on his wrist for good measure. He did it, making a face to to hide the face that, somehow, this still managed to hurt. Ariel noticed –  _of course_ – tilting her head slightly in a way that almost looked she was about to dive into a string of pity that was wholly out of character and wholly unnecessary.

It was fine.

His hand was fine.

So it still hurt and he still couldn’t really touch his thumb to every finger without wincing just a bit, but he could hold his stick and shoot the puck and after that first vaguely horrible practice, Killian had found his on-ice footing again.  

Three weeks into the preseason and he hadn’t actually punched Will yet – despite that look on his face that practically screamed he knew _something_ – and they’d whittled down the roster to an almost league-regulated size and Arthur’s whistle didn’t actually make him cringe anymore. He’d gone to PT on time for the last two appointments and almost,  _almost,_ had a full conversation with Gina about a contract extension before rolling his eyes and having to deal with her muttered opinions about  _throwing his life away._

And, in news that was absolutely, totally unrelated to anything regarding Killian’s sudden positive approach to everything going in within the confines of the New York Rangers organization, he’d saved Emma Swan’s number in his phone.

She’d texted him and he texted back and he wasn’t sure when it had become a  _thing,_ but Killian was glad that, somewhere in the last four days, it had. She asked about practice and he asked about wedding planning and it was...nice.

That was a stupid word and every single person on this entire stupid team would have probably cackled if he said it out loud, but it was.

It was nice.

She was one of the fifteen text messages he hadn’t responded to yet.

The other fourteen were Anna and Elsa demanding to know more about his sudden shift in personality, but that had nothing to do with Emma.

None of it had to do with Emma.

Of course not.

He was, simply, taking a different approach.

To win a Cup.

Obviously.

It was definitely about the Cup.

And not even remotely about the name and the number in his phone or the way his breath caught in his throat every time his phone made noise now, nerves on almost constant-edge that she might have texted him.

That would have been absurd.

His phone went off – lighting up and vibrating on the edge of the chair he’d thrown it in a few minutes before, and Ariel’s eyes nearly fell out of her head when she saw the name flash across the screen.

_Swan._

“Oh my gosh,” she laughed, bordering dangerously close to hysterical already. “Are you for real?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled in Ariel’s direction. Killian shot her a glare and she didn’t shut up, laughed even louder when he swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed the phone in between his shoulder and his ear.

“What?” Emma laughed and he squeezed his eyes shut. Ariel had actually thrown her head back in laughter. “I didn’t actually say anything yet.”  
  
“That wasn’t actually directed at you, Swan.”   
  
“Good to know,” she said. She was smiling. He could  _hear_ her smiling. He was an idiot. “Hey, are you busy right now?”   
  
“PT, why?”   
  
“Oh, never mind then.”   
  
He sat up a bit straighter and Ariel tapped on his wrist, tugging his fingers apart. He was only dimly aware of what she was doing until she pressed her thumb against the back of his palm and he hissed in his breath sharply. “Jesus, Red,” Killian muttered.

“What was that?” Emma asked at the same time Ariel practically shouted, “Did that hurt?”  
  
“I’m fine,” he said, pulling his hand out of Ariel’s grip and readjusting his phone with the curve of his shoulder. “What do you need, Swan?”   
  
“The kid is here.”   
  
“Already?”   
  
Emma hummed in the back of her throat and he knew she wasn’t smiling anymore. She might have been leaning against the wall, mouth twisted in frustration and fingers tugging on the ends of her hair.

He shouldn’t know that already.

“There wasn’t as much traffic as they were planning on,” she continued, voice a bit rueful at the idea that a second-straight community event had ended up slightly off schedule. “He was supposed to get here after you guys got on the ice.”  
  
“Who?”   
  
“The kid.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait, I thought it was a group.”   
  
“No, didn’t I say that?” Killian shook his head – Ariel’s eyes heavy on him, he ignored her. “It was going to be a group, but then, well like twenty other things happened, and now it’s just one kid and he’s here and…”   
  
“And?”

“And he’s got a Jones jersey on.”  
  
“I’ll be right there.”   
  
Emma exhaled slightly and it only then hit him that this would be the first time they’d actually  _seen_ each other since they’d been in her office on Thursday and somewhere in the dozens of text messages and seemingly never-ending conversation, they hadn’t really actually talked about it. Either time.

They didn’t have to.

It didn’t really need a definition. It could just...be. It was good as it was.

They were, quite obviously, attracted to each other – they were just acting on that attraction. And talking nonstop and she was  _calling_ him for help now.

Killian refused to dwell on that. If he did, he was certain, it would be decidedly overwhelming and Ariel would probably start laughing at him again.

No definition. Just more kissing. Oh, fuck, he wouldn’t be able to kiss her when he saw her.

That was probably easier, less complicated, less against the rules they were absolutely breaking. If they gave it a definition, it became  _something_ and Killian didn’t need something else – and he absolutely didn’t need a something that made him want to stay in New York.

That was the part that made Regina mumble about  _throwing away his career_ and he hadn’t actually told anybody else.

Elsa probably knew, because Elsa seemed to know everything, but she hadn’t actually said anything and Killian had only brought it up with Regina a few weeks before the season started.

He wanted out.

He’d win a Cup – or at least try and win a Cup – and then he was done. He was done with New York and the noise and the distinct lack of noise as soon as he got back to his apartment. He was done being the  _face of the franchise_ and everything that went along with it and he was done with teammates who kept calling his brother to provide updates on his seventh-wheel status.

He was done.

He’d finish out the season and then it was on Regina. He wanted to go to Colorado. He wanted to find an apartment and some air that didn’t smell like garbage every single day of the year and he’d be able to play Chutes and Ladders with the twins in person instead of whatever system they’d managed to develop over FaceTime.

Regina thought it was a stupid idea.

_You could get a max deal. They love you here. You could probably take over the team if you wanted to._

He didn’t.

Killian didn’t want any of that. He just wanted to stop feeling guilty for...everything. And he was ninety-nine percent certain he’d be able to do that in Colorado with a piece of garbage hockey team that no one really cared about.

There was a metaphor about the mountains and wide open spaces in there too, but even Killian had to draw the line somewhere on sentimentality.

He hadn’t told Liam yet.

And he’d pointedly ignored that tiny little voice in the back of his mind that claimed he had a family  _here,_  even if the air always smelled a bit like garbage, and Emma Swan had told him he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore.

“Killian?” Emma asked, voice muffled a bit and she sounded like she was crouched in a corner.

“Yeah, still here,” he said quickly, refusing to meet Ariel’s persistent stare. “Where do you need me to be?”  
  
“Are you done with PT?”   
  
“I am now.”   
  
“Killian,” she repeated, but this one sounded a bit like a sigh and the sound seemed to reverberate in the back of his head, like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. The line between real and sentimentality had just blurred a bit more.

“Where, Swan?”  
  
She didn’t answer immediately and he would have bet a good chunk of his salary that she was tugging on her hair again – a  _tell,_ Emma had a tell and now Killian could picture her in front of him even if he closed his eyes.

Maybe he wanted to define it just a bit more than he was letting on.

His phone vibrated in his hand, a short, quick series of buzzes that had him biting his tongue so he didn’t actually groan or fall back on the table in the middle of Ariel’s office. They were probably all from Anna.

“What was that?” Emma asked.

“Nothing, love, it’s fine,” Killian said. Ariel nearly fell out of her chair. “Come on, I’m halfway out Red’s door already, tell me where I’ve got to go or I’m just going to wind up wandering around sections in the arena and that’s just depressing.”

She laughed. And that felt a bit like a victory. “We’re in the store now, getting our fill of team-branded merchandise and then...I don’t know…”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Maybe take him in the locker room?”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes at that, not entirely certain springing a Garden of Dreams appearance on the entire locker room ahead of the last practice before the preseason opener was really in the best interest of anybody. He could see the headlines now  _Rangers ruin small child’s innocence by swearing every other word and planning out all the different ways to cross-check Soyer without getting whistled for it._

That probably wouldn’t fit in print.

 _“_ How old is this kid?” he asked.

“Eleven.” He shifted his weight between his heels and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth as he ran his hand through his hair. “Get your hand out of your hair,” Emma mumbled. He nearly dropped the phone.

“What?”  
  
“Was it not?”   
  
“What?” Killian asked again. Emma laughed, soft and  _knowing_ and the line was totally gone now, he’d fallen face first into sentimentality. “I mean, yeah, but...how?”   
  
She must have shrugged because he could hear her hair brush over the end of her phone and she was still laughing when she answered. “You have a tell,” Emma answered simply. “It’s a good thing you have to wear a helmet on the ice or everybody’d be able to know exactly what you were thinking before you crossed the blue line.”

He scoffed, but it was true and Emma knew it was true and Ariel, who was absolutely listening to this conversation, knew too. “Give me five minutes to walk downstairs, text Locksley and make sure Scarlet is on his best behavior and we can bring the eleven-year-old into the locker room and he can stick around for practice.”  
  
“And sign his jersey?”   
  
“And sign his jersey.”

“Thank you,” she said softly and her voice was low and serious. It made his heartbeat do something ridiculous and Killian wondered when the last time was someone had done something nice for Emma Swan.

She seemed consistently surprised to encounter it in New York.

“Five minutes, love.”  
  
“Ok.”   
  
He hung up, ignoring the dull buzz of another four text messages from Anna or Elsa or maybe even Regina, and stuffed his phone back in his pocket, moving towards the door and a set of stairs at the far end of the hallway. “See ya, Red,” Killian mumbled, hoping beyond hope that he’d be able to get away that easily.

Of course not.

“No, no, no,” Ariel sputtered, reaching out to tug on the back of his t-shirt. “What was that?”  
  
“There’s a GD kid here.”   
  
“You called her  _love._  Was that Emma? Are you calling Emma Swan  _love_ now?” Ariel’s voice picked up with each question and this was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. Killian leaned against the doorway, grabbing his phone again and typing the message to Robin, making sure he was aware of the plan and his duty as babysitter of a vaguely foul-mouthed defenseman.

“I’ve got to go to practice.”  
  
“No, you just said you were going downstairs. What is going on?”   
  
“Nothing that concerns you.”   
  
“Ohhhhhh,” Ariel said, wide-eyed and knowing and Killian  _huffed_ before he could stop himself. “Who else knows?”

“Knows what?”  
  
“That you’re totally in love with Emma Swan.”  
  
“Jeez, Red.”   
  
“I’m serious!”   
  
“I know you are, that’s the problem. Listen, I’ve got to go meet this GD kid and then I really do have to go to practice. I’ll see you when we get back from Pittsburgh, ok?”   
  
Ariel grumbled, muttering something that sounded distinctly like  _I’ll ask Mary Margaret,_ and Killian rolled his eyes, stepping back into the office and letting his hand fall on her shoulder. He bent over before he’d realized what he was doing, head tilted slightly when he kissed her cheek and Ariel didn’t seem quite as frustrated with him anymore.

“Just…” he said, not quite sure what he would actually describe it as. His vocabulary wasn’t that impressive.

And Emma Swan had managed to get under his skin in three weeks and a half a dozen text message conversations and he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her again.

Ariel nodded once, pulling her hand back up to wrap around his wrist and squeeze – tightly. “Yeah, ok.”  
  
He made it down the stairs in seventy-four steps and two minutes to find the main lobby of Madison Square Garden relatively abandoned.

Relatively in the sense that the seemingly ever-present, camera-sporting tourists were taking pictures just inside the doors and there were two people in tickets and one security guard who’d probably walked the same figure-eight path for the last four hours.

And Emma.

He could just make out the top of her hair over a rack of Knicks t-shirts, leaning against a display of knockoff sticks, head turned towards someone...who wasn’t taller than the rack of Knicks t-shirts.

Killian’s hand was halfway back in his hair before he realized he’d stopped walking and had never actually answered Anna. She’d probably call soon.

He shifted on his feet again and he never quite got used to  _this_ – people,  _kids,_ wearing his jersey and wanting his autograph and Garden of Dreams was always telling him about someone or something or some group that wanted him to sign several different things because he was everyone’s favorite. Will made fun of him for it and Robin smiled knowingly as if being captain of the New York Rangers wasn’t enough responsibility, he needed to be something else for a group of kids who didn’t have anything.

He didn’t ever say that out loud.

He hated even thinking it.

Killian had been lucky – the Vankalds had given him everything and Liam had given even more and the least he could was sign some GD kid’s jersey.

Jeez, he was an ass.

He took a step into the store, nodding towards the one attendant that was there in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of September and someone gasped when they noticed him. “Whoa,” muttered a kid a few feet away, sporting a Cup finals jersey and a smile so wide Killian was actually nervous about the state of his jaw.

“Hey,” Emma said, a smile on her face as well when she took a step towards him. “This is Aurora, she works for GD. She helped get Henry here.”  
  
Killian stuck his hand out towards the woman in front of him – brown hair and soft eyes and an  _enormous_ ring on her finger. “It’s so nice to meet you,” Aurora said, hardly letting him take a breath before diving into introductions. “Phillip talks about you non-stop.”  
  
“Phillip?” Killian repeated. “Like rookie Phillip?”   
  
Aurora laughed softly, nodding. “He’s trying to come to terms with that nickname. It’s a work in progress. I think he’s mostly just happy to still be on the roster.”   
  
“So you’re…”

“Fiance.”  
  
“Right,” he said, but it came out as a sigh and Aurora’s smile was just a bit tighter than it had been during the handshake. Emma rolled her eyes and made a face at him and that, somehow, felt significant.

“Anyway,” Emma continued, tugging the jersey-sporting kid closer to her side and his eyes hadn’t gotten any smaller. “Henry, this is Killian. Jones, this is Henry. He’s your biggest fan.”  
  
“That so?” Killian asked, earning himself an enthusiastic nod. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Henry. Swan said you’re eleven?”

Another nod, this time with an additional noise that sounded a bit like Henry was wavering on the specifics. “Almost twelve. I’ll be twelve like a week after the season starts. You guys play the Bruins that night.”  
  
“Look, Swan,” Killian muttered, eyes darting towards Emma. “He tells time like we do.”   
  
“Obviously it’s the best way to do it then,” Emma said.

“So, Henry, what’d you get then?”

He took a step back, head snapping up and he looked a little stunned at the question, like no one had ever really asked him that before. “A new jersey and a stick and gloves. I’m gonna get to watch some of practice, too.”  
  
“Some?”   
  
Henry shrugged. “Emma said maybe the locker room too?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course. We’ll get ‘em all to sign your stick.” The wide-eyes were joined by a gasp and Henry’s jaw actually cracked when his mouth dropped open. Killian could feel Emma’s eyes on him and he resisted the urge to move half a step closer to her, instead opting to crouch down until he was level with Henry, hand falling on the shoulder of the jersey. His jersey. The kid was wearing his jersey.

“You ever been on the ice before, Henry?” Killian asked.

The kid’s eyes were going to fall out of his head, Killian was sure of it, but Emma was smiling, teeth tugging on her lower lip and maybe that had kind of been the point. “I don’t know…” Aurora said slowly, eyes darting between all of them. “We need parental permission for something like that. There’s insurance issues and…”  
  
“I don’t have any parents for you to ask,” Henry mumbled, but Killian heard him as perfectly as if he’d enunciated every single letter.

“Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?” he asked, squeezing Henry’s shoulders and nodding encouragingly towards him. “Come on, Kristoff can find you some skates and you can run warmups with us. Arthur won’t mind.”  
  
Aurora opened her mouth to argue again, but Killian shook his head deftly, slinging his arm around Henry and tugging him towards the door. “We’ll see you on the ice, Swan,” he called back, turning just enough to find her still smiling at him. “We’ll be the ones scoring all the goals.”   
  
Kristoff didn’t just give Henry skates.

He found him a practice jersey that didn’t quite make it past his knees or swallow him up whole and a helmet that, somehow, managed to fit and Will didn’t swear once while Henry was in the locker room.

In fact, no one swore or mentioned anything about Pittsburgh or cross-checking and Henry couldn’t seem to stop smiling, head on a swivel as he tried to take everything in and make sure he didn’t trip over his skates.

And, so, maybe Killian was a pushover and one sentence and a distinct lack of parents and parental supervision had changed his entire view on whatever situation he’d been roped into that afternoon, but Emma kept smiling and she’d asked  _him_ for help and Henry didn’t want to wear the new jersey they’d given him.

It wasn’t Killian’s.

He wanted to wear  _Killian’s jersey._

It was a miracle he managed to skate once they made it to the ice, a mess of thoughts and emotions and practices weren’t usually open – with the exception of the few times near the end when a camera would come in – but he saw Emma as soon as he stepped onto the rink, feet twisted up underneath her in one of the seats at center ice.

She waved, hand moving quickly, arm still pressed up against her side so no one would notice and Killian barely managed to keep his balance.

“You’re going to corrupt this kid,” Robin mumbled, coming up short as he tapped his stick on the back of Killian’s legs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Of course not.” Robin moved his stick again and this one was less a tap and more a jab, nearly making Killian’s knees buckle. “You showing off?”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“Alright, I know you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine, don’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’ve got one question for you.”   
  
“What’s that?”   
  
“Is this serious? Because there’s a kid here who won’t take off your jersey and you got him on the ice and somehow got Arthur to be cool with that the day before a game, so I’m assuming, this has to be pretty serious. Or at least you think it’s serious. Which is impressive considering it’s been three weeks.”   
  
“You honestly think I’m using a GD kid to get a date?” Killian asked, twisting his neck to stare at Robin who just shrugged in response. “Jeez, no, Locksley I’m not. And you asked like three questions and made several wide-sweeping statements just now.”   
  
“Any of them stick?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“No in response to the questions about you and that look you got on your face when she waved at you or no to the other question?”   
  
“You’re a very frustrating guy, you know that?”

Robin hummed in the back of his throat and made a face that seemed to scream  _I know_ and Killian rolled his head back, eyes closing slightly so he didn’t have to look up at the enormous screen and remember he was in the  _World’s Most Famous Arena._

Arthur blew his whistle – as shrill and obnoxious as ever – and Killian breathed an almost audible sigh of relief. There was some mention of skating and circle to circle, but Killian mostly ignored that, leaving Robin without an answer to any of the half a dozen questions he’d asked as he moved towards Henry.

He was pressed up against the glass, just to the right of the only net they’d actually brought on the ice – practices before games, even preseason games, weren’t much more than glorified walk-throughs and Killian had known Arthur wouldn’t have cared.

Henry, however, seemed just a bit overwhelmed by it all, eyeing the players with a mix of awe and fear and anxiety that Killian understood well.

“You’ve never skated before, have you?” Killian asked and Henry made a noise that should probably be patented by every eleven-year-old boy in the entire world. “How’d you end up a Rangers fan?”  
  
He made the same noise again and tried to scrape the back of his blade into the ice, nearly falling over in the process. Killian gripped his arm tightly, tugging Henry back up and he muttered something under his breath.

It was always loud on the ice – even in a glorified walk-through before a preseason game – skates scraping and pucks hitting sticks and crossbars and, when there wasn’t an eleven-year-old kid there, more swearing and jabbing and screaming than some sort of raucous port tavern in a 1950s pirate film.

And, usually, Killian loved it. He loved the noise and the organized chaos that was this stupid sport, but then, with an eleven-year-old standing next to him, muttering under his breath and looking just a bit overwhelmed, he wished it was a little quieter.

Henry looked like he could use some quiet.

“You know,” Killian chanced, digging the toe of his skate down. “I wouldn’t have been able to get parental permission either.”  
  
Henry’s head snapped towards him, wavering just a bit on shaky legs and not-quite-stable skates. “What?”   
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat and ignored the feel of Robin’s stare from the other side of the rink.

They didn’t really publicize it.

And no one had ever really asked who the two very nice, very respectable people standing in the back corner of every single press conference either Jones brother had ever attended were. People just assumed.

They were normally wrong.

“My brother and I were on our own for a little while and, well, we got very, very lucky and we found a home, but they weren’t ever really our parents. I remembered my mom still, despite all the things they did for us. So, well, I get it.”  
  
He should have been better at this – this  _emotional_ conversation he was having with an eleven-year-old in hushed tones so the rest of his teammates wouldn’t actually hear him – but he wasn’t. He was an awkward, stuttering mess with half a smile on his face and the hope that, maybe, it would make Henry feel better.

“Emma said the same thing,” Henry mumbled.

He hadn’t been expecting that and something that felt a bit like betrayal shot through Killian's system – which was just as absurd as it sounded, even in his head. He hadn’t told Emma she couldn’t say anything, especially to a parentless kid from Garden of Dreams. He just...hadn’t expected her to.

“Swan told you about the Vankalds?” Killian asked, falling into the nickname without even realizing it.  

“Who?”  
  
Killian blinked once. He’d lost complete control of this conversation. “The uh...Vankalds. The ones...Liam and I lived with them. Wait, what are you talking about?”

He might not have been able to push off the glass or even keep perfect balance on his skates, but Henry was perceptive and Killian knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer as soon as he saw the eyebrows move. “We were just talking.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
Arthur’s whistle blew again and they were going to run drills and plays and Henry really couldn’t be on the ice anymore. Emma had moved from her seat, back behind the door that swung open and the hallway that directed back towards the locker rooms – on the other side of the ice. Henry took a deep breath, scrunching his nose at the expanse of ice and required skating in front of him.

Killian felt the ends of his mouth tick up, memories of that rink at Chelsea Piers and a patch of ice in Central Park, and he moved back away from Henry quickly, half a foot in front of him now. “One foot in front of the other,” he said, nodding towards the skates. “And don’t lift your feet. That’s how you fall.”  
  
“Don’t you lift your feet when you breakaway?”

“You gotta walk before you can run,” Killian laughed. “Push off so you’ve got some momentum going.”

Henry nodded, bending his knees as he moved and Killian thought he heard him take a deep breath before he pushed away from the boards. He didn’t fall – immediately. He made it to the edge of the faceoff circle before the front end of his skate got caught up underneath him and he landed, very soundly, on the ice.

“Fuck,” Killian mumbled under his breath, moving quicker than he had all preseason to grab Henry and pull him back to his feet. “You ok?”

He was laughing.

The kid was laughing – bits of ice stuck to the front of his jersey and, somehow, a few pieces had found their way into his hair and he looked like he’d just won the goddamn Cup. “Great,” Henry promised. “Can I try and score?”  
  
Arthur blew his whistle again and Killian shook his head quickly, smile threatening to overtake his entire face at this point. “Maybe next time. Arthur’ll kill me if I don’t get you off the ice.”

“Next time?”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Is that how it normally works?”   
  
Killian shrugged. It wasn’t. Normally the GD kids showed up and he never really thought about them again, but none of them had ever come on the ice either. Or refused a brand-new jersey so they could keep wearing Killian’s.

“Let Swan and I worry about that, ok?” he asked, moving around Henry to push on his shoulder and move him across the ice.

Henry nodded, ice starting to melt in his hair, as he took a cautious step through the doorway in the boards and grabbing Emma’s outstretched hand. “You ok, kid?” she asked, eying his now-damp jersey critically.

“Great!”  
  
“We’ll watch for a little while and then Aurora’s got to get you back downtown, ok?”   
  
“Ok,” Henry agreed, but there was a disappointment in his voice that made Killian’s eyes dart towards Emma. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t push. There were rules and lines and invisible walls that he was certain prevented him from asking about what she’d told Henry in the team store. He wanted to know. “Hey, Killian,” Henry continued, turning back around quickly towards him. “It’s because it’s always been there.”   
  
“What has?” he asked.

“Hockey. That’s why I like the Rangers. I’ve been able to watch the games, or at least some highlights, in every house I’ve ever been in. It’s there.”  
  
Killian’s throat felt too tight and it was, suddenly, too warm on this ice and he should have been able to come up with something to say, something profound or role model-y. He didn’t. He just nodded.

Emma was biting her lip.

“Let’s go, Jones,” Arthur shouted. Killian flashed an apologetic smile Henry’s direction, but he didn’t seem too put out by the practice going on in front of him.

“Don’t forget your stick’s in Kristoff’s office.”  
  
“I won’t.”   
  
“Good. See ya, Henry.”   
  
“Bye!” 

* * *

He was totally showing off.

It was supposed to be a walk-through, moving through plays and possible defensive schemes they’d see in Pittsburgh the next night and Killian was absolutely showing off – flying through run-throughs and past barely-trying defenders and Will kept rolling his eyes dramatically enough that it was obvious what he was doing even behind his visor.

Killian had beaten Phillip the Rookie five times.

Henry cheered on the last one.

“You’ve answered my question, you know,” Robin said, lining up against him in the faceoff circle.

Arthur actually sighed, mumbling curses under his breath. His accent was even stronger now, frustration audible in every syllable, even the ones he didn’t want his players to actually hear. “God, will you two shut up?” he muttered. “You know they have the best faceoff man in the league in ‘Burgh?”  
  
“Jeez, are we calling it ‘Burgh, now?” Killian asked, glancing up at a visibly amused Robin.

“And it’s a preseason game, Arthur,” Robin reasoned. “No one’s actually going to try in faceoffs.”  
  
“You are,” Arthur said and it sounded a bit like a command. “That is, after all, what your wife touted as your greatest strength during contracts last season. Prove it.”   
  
Robin glared at Arthur long enough to miss the puck drop and Killian won the faceoff easily. “Again,” Arthur hissed. That  _was_ a command.

They went  _again_ another two dozen times until Robin had won six straight and Arthur finally seemed, relatively, satisfied. And when Killian glanced back up at the seats, Emma and Henry were gone. It shouldn’t have been nearly as disappointing as it was.

The flight was scheduled to leave three hours after practice – a  _hop_ from JFK to Pittsburgh – and by the time Killian finally got off the ice and out of his practice gear, all he wanted to do was sleep for the hour and a half they’d spend in the air.

That, however, seemed impossible as soon as he stepped in front of his locker, ends of his hair still wet from the shower and team-branded t-shirt just a bit baggier than usual.

Robin was already there, phone in one hand and and bag at his feet as he lounged on the bench with his feet stretched out in front of him. “You want to talk?” he asked, but the look on his face seemed to prove he already knew the answer.

“Nope,” Killian answered, shoving Robin out of the way as he grabbed the sweatshirt just behind his shoulder. “And there’s not anything to talk about, you said I already answered your question. Seems fairly wrapped up.”  
  
“Anna texted me. Said you’re ignoring her.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Are you?”   
  
“I’ve been kind of busy. Camp and practices and...stuff.”   
  
“Stuff?”   
  
“Yeah stuff.”   
  
Stuff, in this case, were hour-long text message conversations with Emma that seemed to be cutting more and more into his allotted eight hours of sleep each night, but Killian wasn’t about to announce that fact in the middle of the locker room, even with Robin staring at him.

Killian rolled his eyes, sighing loudly and he heard the footsteps before he felt them – a six-year-old colliding with the side of his leg again. He bent down to grab Roland around the waist, slinging him over his shoulder and he felt the tension that had settled at the bottom of his spine ebb just a bit when he felt the laughter.

“What are you doing in here, Rol?” Robin asked, tugging on the sleeve of his son’s shirt. “You know the rules. You’re supposed to wait outside.”  
  
“Gina was talking to somebody. And I wanted to see Hook. Hi, Hook!”

Killian winced slightly when the greeting was screamed in his ear, shifting Roland’s weight on his shoulder until he’d induced a fresh round of laughter. “Hi, Rol,” he said. “You watch practice?”  
  
“No, I had to go to school.”   
  
“Lame,” Will said, his own bag slung over his shoulder, and Robin shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t do that anymore, Rol.”

“You’re no help at all,” Robin muttered. Will just shrugged. “Who was Gina talking to, Rol?”  
  
“Your friend from before.”   
  
Roland hummed against Killian’s shoulder, kicking slightly against his chest. “Descriptive,” Killian laughed. “What she look like, Rol?”   
  
“She had yellow hair. You were talking to her before when we were at practice.”   
  
He almost dropped Roland, stuttering slightly at the description and Will laughed under his breath, doing his best to turn it into a cough when he faced the combined glare of both Killian and Robin. “Go,” Robin said, nodding towards the door. “I mean you did already answer my question.”

Killian nodded once, grabbing his bag off the ground and stuffing his phone in his pocket and he was out the door in six and a half steps, coming up short when he found Emma sitting cross-legged on the ground in the hallway.

Gina was gone – probably trying to find her kid or talk to someone about Killian’s  _career-ruining idea_ – and Emma glanced up when he heard the sneakers on the hallway, smile inching across her face when she met his gaze.

“Hey,” she said.

“I, uh, I thought you’d be gone,” Killian stumbled, eyes tracing down the line of her, leather jacket on over a light-colored shirt and dark-wash pants and boots that hit just below her knees. She shifted against the wall, propping her head on her hand and eyeing him speculatively and it was even louder in this hallway than it had been on the ice.

“And pass up the chance to actually meet Regina?” Emma asked, laughter tinging her voice. “Did Roland find you? He was very concerned about that.”  
  
“He did. And his dad, which is probably more important in the grand scheme of things. Gina’s going to lose her mind when she finds out Rol worked his way into the locker room. He broke about eight different rules on that one.”   
  
“Eight? That’s impressive.”   
  
“Yeah, well, he’s not supposed to come into the locker room.”   
  
“You’re like a picture of parental control up there.”   
  
“I don’t want to get yelled at by Gina.”   
  
“She did seem kind of intimidating.”   
  
Killian barked out a laugh, tossing his bag back at his feet and sinking next to Emma, arm brushing against hers when he sat down. She tapped her fingers against the back of his hand and he did his best to resist the very real urge to lace his own through them, to squeeze her hand or wrap his arm around her shoulders.

“She’s not always like that, just when Rol’s concerned,” Killian said.

“And your contract.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“She mentioned you’re a free agent at the end of the season. I didn’t know that.” It didn’t  _sound_ like an accusation, but he could have been at the other end of the hallway and still hear the change in her tone. The way her eyes ducked away from his and she pulled her arms across her chest were just an added bonus.

“It’s not exactly something we’re broadcasting, love.”

“Are you worried?”  
  
“About?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Throw a dart. FA’s not exactly a set-in-stone kind of thing.”

She was right and Killian hadn’t entirely considered what would happen if the Av’s weren’t particularly interested in letting him live out some sort of grizzled-veteran fantasy for the final few years of his career, or what the response would be like in New York when he just packed up and left.

Or what Emma’s response would be.

“I'm not worried,” Killian said, another almost-truth. “Gina’s good. It’ll be fine. I’m mostly just concerned about the season.”  
  
“That was good,” Emma mumbled.

“What was?”  
  
“You’re PR-perfect response for when you’re inevitably asked that after every game.”   
  
“Were you interviewing me, Swan?”   
  
“Not intentionally.”

She tried to smile at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and only made it about halfway across her face before she tugged her arms even tighter, leather crinkling a bit at the movement.   
  
He didn’t think. He couldn’t let himself think. If he did he’d lose his nerve and probably realize this was  _pushing_ and he wouldn’t be able to grab her hand and tug her arm back towards his side and wrap his fingers around her.

Emma didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn her head completely to look at him, but the smile was  _real_ now and she twisted her wrist slightly until her fingers were twisted up in his. They hadn’t actually moved off the floor yet.

“You want to take a walk, Swan?” Killian asked, nuding his shoulder against Emma’s.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?“  
  
“Not for awhile.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just pushed himself back up and didn’t let go of Emma’s hand and she was next to him half a second later. “Come on.”   
  
They moved back down the hallway, the opposite direction of the pre-flight noise and the vague chaos that came with the very first – preseason – game of the year and he’d walked them back into the arena without even meaning to, just looking for somewhere that was quiet and close and Killian didn’t really care where it was as long as Emma didn’t let go of his hand.

“You just trying to show off your ability to sneak into the rink?” she asked, laughing slightly when he moved them towards the bench. The tension was back in his shoulders in half a breath and a few words and the sound of her laughter and Emma lowered her eyebrows when she saw it all play out on Killian’s face. “What?”  
  
“I am,” he said, sounding a bit like he was admitting to something. “Showing off, that is.”   
  
“Yeah I kind of figured when you started scaring Phillip the Rookie for life.”   
  
“He’ll get over it.”   
  
“He better tomorrow or Arthur will probably make him run sprints in full pads.”   
  
“You could be the coach, Swan.”   
  
She rolled her eyes, leaning back slightly on the bench so there was room next to her. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“What?”  
  
“Show off.”   
  
“Youngest child syndrome,” he said, sitting down next to her and his heart absolutely  _didn’t_ stop when Emma turned towards him.

“Even so. You don’t need to. You’re two-for-two on saving events of mine, so consider yourself with several marks in the hero column.”

Killian made a face, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue with her, the way her hand fell on top of his and his scarred fingers without even realizing it. And maybe he should figure out a way to ask her to take a walk in a way that didn’t entirely seem like he wanted to date her, but also like it did and he just wanted a few minutes  _alone_ with Emma Swan.

Away from hockey.

That was a strange change of pace.

“You did all of this, Swan,” he said, leaning forward half an inch until he could make out just how green her eyes were and he couldn’t focus on that too long or he wouldn’t be able to get a single word out. “This wasn’t anything I did, this was back-to-back things you’ve saved, even when they’ve all changed in a moment’s notice.”  
  
“Charmer,” she mumbled, ducking her eyes towards her boots, but her hand didn’t move away from his.

“The truth.”  
  
“Today was a complete disaster. There were supposed to be five kids and it was like eighteen different reasons for why they couldn’t come and GD wanted to move the whole event since there’d only be one kid, but it just didn’t seem right to switch everything. Even if it was just one kid. He...he deserved to get his day.”   
  
Emma smiled sadly, like she was remembering a memory or a moment and Killian’s mind danced back to what Henry had told him.  _That’s what Emma said._ He didn’t ask. He wanted to, wanted to know every single goddamn thing about her, but it had only been three weeks and they couldn’t seem to define  _this_ and he didn’t ask.

“It was not a complete disaster,” Killian countered, arguing instead of asking. “You made sure a kid got what he wanted. That’s as far away from a disaster as it could possibly be.”  
  
“You helped.”   
  
“Ah, well, you asked. And I think we make quite the team, don’t you?”   
  
It felt like it happened in slow motion – Emma’s eyes moving back up his face and meeting his gaze and darting back down towards his lips, her hand pulling out from underneath his until her fingers found their way to the back of his neck and the bottom of his hair and Killian wasn’t entirely convinced he was still breathing.

Eventually he’d look back on that moment, in the weeks and the months and the  _everything_ that would follow, those few seconds spent on the bench in the arena, and he knew that was the moment when everything changed and things seemed to shift or recenter and, well, she’d asked. So, Killian did whatever he could to fix it and make sure it worked and it was a trend he didn’t particularly mind continuing.

Three weeks and a few moments and  _this_ moment and he was, officially, a lost cause.

Emma shifted again, sliding a bit closer towards him until her other hand had fallen on his chest and her thigh was pressed up against his. “Thank you,” she mumbled, leaning forward and Killian could practically  _feel_ the words in front of him.

“I wanted to.”  
  
“Well, for what it’s worth, you looked fairly good showing off. All goal-scoring and everything.”   
  
He chuckled under his breath and he could have rested his forehead against Emma’s if he moved another half an inch, a breath of space between them that was too much and too little all at the same time. “Is that the technical term, love?”   
  
“Not your love,” she mumbled.

He moved or she moved and they might have even moved at the same time, but the words were no sooner out of her mouth than they were a mess of hands and lips and,  _fuck,_ teeth and his fingers worked their way under the edge of her jacket and the bottom of her shirt. She gasped when he hit skin and pressed his palm against her back, pulling her even closer and it didn’t really need a definition if it kept ending up like this.

He was wearing more than she was – a sweatshirt and team-branded t-shirt and grey sweatpants that cost some ridiculous amount in the store Henry had been in before – and Killian was fairly certain he hadn’t heard anything he enjoyed more than the sound of Emma’s vague frustration when she tried to work through the layers of fabric.

Three weeks and one set-up in the corner of the restaurant and he still didn’t know enough about her or anything more than what she was willing to share via text messages, but Emma didn’t seem to mind and Killian couldn’t think about anything but the heady way she kept rocking against his front, like she was trying to desperately find some friction.

If he were still slightly coherent he’d add this to the reasons he should ask Emma somewhere,  _anywhere,_ that wasn’t the Garden or the practice facility upstate or a surprise party she didn’t want and Killian cursed just about every religious figure he’d ever heard of when her foot wrapped around his calf.

“You are just…” she mumbled, a bit breathless when she spoke. Emma groaned slightly when she couldn’t come up with the word, hand falling away from the front of his sweatshirt to push against the top of his pants and he nearly jumped off the bench when her fingers landed on the curve of his hip.

“What, love?” Killian stuttered, calling her that on purpose, just to see her eyes flash up at him. “What am I, exactly?”  
  
“Infuriating. And just…”   
  
He pulled away from her face, studying her for a moment and she looked as conflicted as she sounded, eyebrows pulled low and breath coming in short pants. “What?” Killian prompted. “I mean we’ve already covered charming.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move back onto the bench and she wasn’t really sitting on the bench anymore, balanced more on his thigh than anything else. “We’re breaking the rules,” she muttered, whispering out the words as her head fell against Killian’s shoulder. “I just…”   
  
“These half sentences, Swan,” Killian said, doing his best to keep his voice light as he nudged his shoulder up. She still wasn’t looking at him and that feeling of dread was back in the pit of his stomach, a stark contrast to the metaphorical tsunami of feelings he’d experienced when he was kissing her – again.

“I’m not sure I care,” she whispered, tugging her gaze back up towards his.

Killian felt the smile practically explode across his face, moving before she could as his lips crashed against hers. Emma rocked against him again and he bit back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand worked its way back into her hair and across her neck and if they never left this bench it would have been ok.

“Me either,” he added, mumbling the words against her neck and appreciating how she shivered just a bit.

His phone went off. Of course his phone went off, the buzzing sounding almost ridiculously loud in the arena with the added bonus of vibrating against the bench through his pocket. “Ignore it, ignore it,” Killian muttered, tugging Emma back towards him. It was probably Anna anyway, the phone call he’d been certain was inevitable after he’d ignored over a dozen text messages.

The noise stopped – and started again five seconds later, somehow sounding louder and even more insistent.

“God fucking damnit,” he said, earning a quiet laugh out of Emma as he shifted slightly to pull his still-ringing phone out of his pocket.

It wasn’t Anna.

“What?” Killian snapped as soon as he held the phone up to his ear.

Robin clicked his tongue on the other end of the line and it was the most  _fatherly_ thing Killian had heard in the last week – including the moment Liam had tried to discipline one of the twins while still on the phone with him two days before.

“People are asking where you are,” Robin said.

“And?”  
  
“And where Emma is. So, you know...put two and two together and come back here because we’re going to leave soon.”   
  
“Hours. We weren’t going to leave for hours.”   
  
“Bumped up. Something about a storm and wind. I don’t know, I’m not a pilot. I’d just get back here before people start talking even more and Roland remembers what he saw in Tarrytown.”   
  
Killian’s mouth hung open and Emma looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow lifted. “Your kid’s got a very big mouth, you know.”   
  
“I know nothing,” Robin promised. “Just that you’ve been ending up alone with Emma several times now. I’m just trying to make your life a little bit easier.”   
  
Killian sighed dramatically, head falling forward slightly. Emma’s fingers ghosted over the back of his neck and that made it a bit easier, even if six-year-old Roland Locksley saw  _something_ and people were  _talking._

This wouldn’t happen in Colorado.

Except Emma Swan wasn’t in Colorado.

“Like five minutes, Killian, tops,” Robin said.

“I’ll be right there.”  
  
He didn’t even try to put his phone back in his pocket – certain it would probably just start ringing again anyway – and Emma, finally, moved back to the bench, smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

“You’ve got to go?” she asked.

“Something about a storm and a bumped up itinerary and a search party to find me.”

“Ah, well, they can’t lose their captain, can they? Insert cliche about being a fearless leader here or whatever.”  
  
“Definitely whatever.”   
  
Emma scoffed and tugged her shirt back in a slightly more respectable and even direction. “Can I ask you a question?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Why does Roland Locksley call you Hook?”   
  
It wasn’t the question Killian had been expecting, so, naturally, he probably should have. He hadn’t really expected anything to go the way it had in the last three weeks. “Oh,” he laughed. “Two reasons actually. When I got hurt my hand was in this huge cast for like months and then there was a brace and it was just this ridiculous contraption and, according to Rol, he remembers it looking like a hook. He was young, barely even over a year old, and the memories are mostly what Locksley and Gina have told him and photos, but he  _knows_ so no one really argues with him.”   
  
“What’s the second reason?”   
  
“I throw a very good right hook.”

Emma’s laugh made her whole face shift, bright and happy and shoulders rolled back just a bit when she stood up to look at him like he might actually be the most interesting person she’d ever met. “I didn’t think you were the fighter on this team.”  
  
“Only when the situation calls for it.”   
  
“You think it will tomorrow night?”   
  
“It’s a preseason game, Swan.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
Killian shrugged. “We’ll see.” Emma nodded slowly, lower lip pushed out slightly and he wondered when he’d been able to start reading her  _that well. "_ What’s wrong?”   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Just, you know, be careful or something.”

He stood up at the way her voice shifted, eyes falling back to the ground and the small pile of used paper cups in the corner of the bench. His hands moved up and down her arms, leather bunching underneath his fingers and Killian ducked his head to force himself into her eyeline. “It’s a preseason game, Swan,” he repeated. “I won’t even get ten minutes.” She hummed in agreement, forehead brushing against his shoulder.

“Let me know when you land?” Emma asked, eyes widening and breath catching just a bit when she realized what she’d asked.

“Of course,” Killian said. He kept his voice even, doing his best to sound as sincere as he was, while still managing to walk that fine line of two people just  _breaking the rules_ and not actually talking about it. It all kind of proved pointless though when he brushed his lips over her forehead and that didn’t seem like  _whatever._

“You should probably go.”  
  
“Probably.” Killian’s hands felt back on her hips and he had to actually bend his knees to reach her when he kissed her, but he could still feel Emma’s smile when he did. “I’ll text you later, ok?”   
  
Emma nodded, lips on his cheek and standing on tiptoes and if he said he didn’t think about  _that_ moment the entire hour and a half he was on the plane to Pittsburgh, it would have been a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's go play some hockey games, huh? And just...keep making out and adding more characters. Just a warning going forward, this is very much a Rangers fic, so there will be some less-than-positive depictions of other teams in the Metro. ::cough cough the Penguins:: 
> 
> As always, I cannot thank you guys enough for being so fantastic and @laurenorder makes all of this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening


	9. Chapter 9

She’d told Henry.

She hadn’t meant to.

If it had been any other situation or any other kid, Emma probably wouldn’t have said anything. She’d have kept those memories and experiences and a very distinct string of never-ending disappointments pushed under metaphorical lock and key like they always were. She never told anyone that kind of stuff.

Except Mary Margaret and David.

But that didn’t really count.

She was, after all, still sleeping on their couch.

Aurora had wanted to cancel, calling Emma two hours before the kids – the scheduled group of five from a foster home downtown, all of them inexplicably obsessed with the Rangers and anxious to meet a handful of pre-selected players – were supposed to show up on 34th Street. It was a slew of reasons, something about how two of them were sick and one of them was adopted and the other one just didn’t want to come anymore, but that still left one and Aurora actually sounded surprised when Emma asked about him.

“Isn’t he still going to come?” Emma questioned, doing her best not to sound like she was attacking Aurora over the phone. She might have been.

She hadn’t expected community relations to hit quite _this_ close to home, drudging up memories and feelings and God help anyone who tried to get in her way when it came to events like this.

Henry was going to get to this practice.

“Well,” Aurora said slowly, “I don’t know if it’s worth it. I mean, the guys are all over the place because it’s the last practice before Pittsburgh and it just kind of seems like a lot for one kid.”  
  
“One kid?” Emma repeated. “Isn’t that kind of the point of this whole GD thing? Who cares if it’s one kid?”  
  
Her voice had picked up without her even trying and she could hear Aurora’s quiet gasp on the other end of the phone. They’d absolutely fallen into the realm of _attacking_ now. “Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbled. “I just think if we’ve already planned this whole thing then the kid should get a chance to come. That’s all.”  
  
Aurora agreed after that, something shifting in her tone and Emma knew she’d won whatever battle they’d been waging over a charity appearance. The irony of _that_ was not lost on her either.

Henry was already in the store by the time she got there, wandering through racks of clothes and posters and who knew there was so much team-branded merchandise in the entire world. He’d smiled nervously at her, scuffing his feet and stuffing his hands in his pockets. She’d only noticed the jersey when she was standing a few inches in front of him, the ‘C’ on his shoulder practically reaching out and smacking her across the face.

Jones.

He was wearing a Killian Jones jersey and Emma had her phone out of her pocket half a second later, a plan forming in the back of her mind.

She knew he’d do it the second she asked, could hear the smile in his voice and could practically picture his hand in his hair – not that it meant anything. Of course it didn’t. Neither did the way he’d kissed her in her office or how they kept texting each other every night, Emma finally putting his number in her _actual_ phone as well.

He’d teased her about having to update her contact information for at least five minutes and she hadn’t been able to wipe the smile off her face the next morning, earning herself a pointed look from Mary Margaret on her way out the door.

Emma knew he’d show up and he did and then she’d told Henry about her vaguely pitiful, somewhat similar life story and the whole thing had been dangerously close to perfect. She hadn’t told Killian.

Emma had told Henry though – words tumbling out of her mouth as soon as she saw the way he reacted to the overpriced team-branded merchandise in the store, as if they were suddenly going to ask him to fork over the cash for it.

She knew that look.

She, somehow, still managed to _feel_ that look, years spent in buildings and houses that never really felt like homes and gazes of pity sent her way like she wasn’t quite ever enough, doing more than enough emotional damage.

Emma saw it all etched on Henry’s face as soon as he walked into the Garden and somewhere in between making sure he actually still got his day with the team and an absolutely ridiculous amount of team-branded merchandise, she’d told him the truth.

She told him she understood and about the five different states she’d lived in before she turned eighteen and how it eventually got better and hockey helped make it better – conveniently leaving out how hockey had also helped convince her true love didn’t really exist – and Killian Jones had shown up in the middle of the store without a single question as to why she’d called him.

She’d called and she’d asked and, jeez, he got Henry on the ice like that wasn’t the most important thing that had ever happened to the kid. And she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he was absolutely showing off, skating through defenders with ease and stick-handling far more than he actually had to and Phillip the Rookie was probably going to end up with some kind of a complex if Killian kept beating on him that much during practice.

Emma absolutely didn’t care.

Henry kept smiling and laughing and she did too  – a bit overwhelmed to see Killian in his element for the first time.

He was a good skater, even when he was trying to show Henry how to move across the ice without falling over, all ease and a distinct lack of effort, like he was just taking a step instead of gliding across a sheet of ice.

And Emma kind of hated herself for even _thinking_ the word gliding.

She just couldn’t come up with another word – no wonder they’d made him captain, she’d thought, appreciating the way Henry gasped and cheered for every single move. The entire team seemed to operate around him, focused on what he was doing whenever the puck touched his stick.

Emma tried to rack her brain and remember if he’d ever won the Hart and she should probably have that information just filed away at this point, ready to pull out at a moment’s notice, but three teams and two NHL divisions later, it was kind of tough to keep track.

“Henry,” she muttered, nudging his shoulder to try and get his attention. He didn’t actually look at her, eyes never leaving the ice as the team ran through a drill that vaguely resembled some kind of three-man-weave on skates.

“What?”  
  
“Did Killian ever win the Hart?”  
  
“What?” Henry repeated, finally turning to stare at her and the look on his face was obvious, as if he couldn’t believe Emma was asking the question. “No. He won the Rocket the year they went to the finals, scored like almost fifty goals that season.”  
  
Emma let out a low whistle and Henry made a noise that sounded a bit like approval. Her mind drifted for half a moment to awards shows and how they’d make him wear a tux and he probably looked better in a tux than he did in uniform, which was saying something...something she probably shouldn’t say out loud near an eleven-year-old kid.

“They thought he would though,” Henry continued, voice dropping low. Emma narrowed her eyes, not aware when the conversation took the meaningful turn it seemed to have fallen into. “A couple of seasons ago.”  
  
“A couple of seasons.” Henry nodded and Emma felt her breath catch in her throat when realization hit her, feeling as if she’d just tripped on the ice a bit. “When he got hurt, right?” Another nod. “How old were you then?”  
  
“Six.”  
  
“And you remember that?”  
  
This time the nod was a shrug and a quiet mumble and Henry was shaking his head like he was trying to think of the right words. “I watch a lot of hockey,” he said, rushing over the words quickly. He didn’t have to. Emma understood.

“Me too,” she muttered, working a smile out of Henry. They didn’t talk about trophies anymore or leading the league in goals or Killian getting hurt and Emma didn’t ask about any of it later, far too preoccupied with the way he promised Henry about _next time_ as if it was obvious there would be a next time.

Emma made sure there would be.

“You have a phone?” she asked, tugging on the back of Henry’s jersey before he walked out the dozen glass doors in the Garden lobby.

He eyed her meaningfully, head falling to the side and she resisted the urge to actually scoff at him. “I have a phone,” he confirmed. “I don’t use it a ton and it’s a flip phone, but it exists. Mostly so the house knows where I am.”

Emma held her hand out expectantly, curling her fingers forward when Henry didn’t move immediately – and it only took her a few moments to actually figure out where the contacts were on a flip phone, typing in her number and her name. Her _real_ number, not her work number.

“Here,” she said, pushing the phone back towards Henry. “If you need anything and I’m serious, anything, text me and let me know. We’ll get you back up here sooner rather than later and you can see an actual game. Maybe even learn how to skate.”  
  
“Hey! I thought I did ok.”  
  
“You did great,” Emma promised, smiling when her hand fell on Henry’s shoulder and Killian’s jersey. “You’ll do better with some practice.”  
  
Henry hugged her – and Emma wasn’t entirely ready for it, body going tense when she felt arms wrapped around her and a head against her side, but it only took a breath to respond and she hugged him right back.

It was the hug, she tried to rationalize later, that had done it – that had made her certain she couldn’t just walk out of the Garden without actually talking to Killian again or thanking him or _something_ so he knew what he’d done and how much she appreciated it and how...good he was. He hadn’t even questioned her, just shown up.

She couldn’t just walk away again.

So she sat on the floor outside the locker room and waited for him to come out and met Regina and talked to Roland Locksley again and then she’d...climbed on Killian Jones’ lap and nearly, _nearly,_ tried to stick her hands down his pants.

So much for those rules.

Not that he really seemed to mind. He had, after all, told her as much – in between kisses and his hand flat on her back, the feeling of which Emma was certain was probably burned into her memory at this point.

But then his phone had gone off and there was a storm – of course there was a storm – and they’d still been in the middle of the Garden for God's sake. Emma was back in square one of completely overwhelmed, his willingness to do whatever she asked taking her by surprise and making her forget all the reasons this was wrong.

It was wrong.

They worked together.

Or kind of.

It’s not like she was actually on the roster, but she hadn’t been lying when said she was fairly certain this was against some HR rule. They’d made out anyway. In her office. They should probably start a list of all the places they hit across the Garden.

Emma let out a slightly manic laugh at that, drawing a curious look from David who was standing in front of the stove, cooking, what he claimed was _the most delicious breakfast for dinner_ meal she’d ever eat. She brushed him off, trying to clear her head of blue eyes and hands on her back and he was always so _warm_ – every time they’d done this, the making out across various New York Rangers facilities, Emma found herself marveling at it. His hands were warm and _he_ was warm and maybe that’s why she kept getting goosebumps whenever she was around him.

Probably not.

But she could at least pretend.

It made her feel as if she had more control that way.

Her phone shook on the table, making David turn again, a wide-eyed look on his face. “Jeez, Em,” he mumbled, stepping towards the couch with a towel slung over his shoulder. “How loud do you have that thing?”  
  
“Loud enough,” she shot back, grabbing it before he could and glancing at the name on the screen. She also ignored the way her pulse thudded when she saw who it was.

“You’re going to shatter the table.”  
  
“You’re a very dramatic man,” she said and David just made a face, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. Emma laughed, swiping her thumb across the screen and the smile on her face practically hurt by the time her eyes scanned over the message.

_Landed. Survived a ridiculous amount of turbulence and Scarlet screaming like his life was actually, somehow, in danger and am now being forced into some sort of “team-bonding” dinner as if we’re not already bonded enough. Still disappointed we had to leave early._

She giggled. Actually giggled, a disgusting girlish sound Emma was convinced she’d never made in her entire life and Mary Margaret stared at her like she’d never seen her before when she rounded the corner of the couch.

“Who are you talking to?” Mary Margaret asked, sinking onto the other side of the cushions. She already knew the answer.

“No one,” Emma said.

Mary Margaret just hummed in agreement or maybe contradiction and she flicked the side of Emma’s arm when she stood up. “I’ll go distract David.”  
  
And any frustration Emma had felt before, any idea that Mary Margaret wasn’t actually the human embodiment of all things good and pure disappeared in that one promise and that one sentence. “Thanks,” Emma said, doing her best to put a bit more meaning than normal into those five letters.

Mary Margaret understood. She always understood.

Emma hadn’t actually answered, phone still gripped tightly in her hand and she nearly jumped out of her skin when it vibrated again.

_Did you know the Big Mac was invented in Pittsburgh?_

She did laugh at that, head hitting back against the side of the couch and several internal organs did something vaguely ridiculous at just how absurd the message was and he had texted twice – in a row.

Like he wanted to keep talking to her.

**Is your team-bonding dinner at McDonald’s then?**

_I have yet to figure out where the team-bonding, forced socialization dinner is. No one tells me anything. Although to be fair I don’t think anyone knows yet, too busy grabbing bags and getting in cars and all of that._

**Did you, literally, just land?**

She typed it and hit send without _really_ realizing what she’d asked and it was only after she saw the sentence on the screen – without even a sign of three dots on the text message-sending horizon – that Emma realized what she’d asked.

And he hadn’t answered immediately.

This all felt a little bit like...something she wouldn’t put a name to. They were friends. Who made out. Constantly. Across most of Madison Square Garden. And texted. As soon as they landed in other cities with their professional hockey teams.

Emma liked it.

She shouldn’t. She did.

Her phone buzzed again.

_Uh, yeah, like a few minutes ago. That ok?_

**Yeah.**

Emma twisted her mouth, staring at the phone as if it had personally offended her and she couldn’t remember the last time someone – let alone someone who also happened to be captain of the New York Rangers – wanted to text her as soon as they’d landed to make sure she wouldn’t worry.

Wait.

Was she worried about Killian Jones? No. Of course not. That would have been absurd. It was a preseason game. In Pennsylvania. There was nothing to be worried about. She hardly even knew him. And he’d come to the lobby store as soon as she’d called and gotten Henry on the ice and she _had_ asked him to let her know when he landed.

Well, fuck.

**Did you know that the Penguins got their name because their original arena was known as The Igloo?**

_How could you possibly know that?_  
  
**I know everything. How did you know about Big Mac’s?  
** **  
** I know everything.

**About Pittsburgh?**

_Liam’s idea. When we went somewhere during our rookie season we ~learned~ something. It’s probably some sort of symptom of being on our own, determination to prove ourselves or something absurd, but it’s kind of stuck._

**That’s the most goddamn adorable thing I’ve ever heard.**

_Adorable? First I’m cute and now I’m adorable? So many compliments, Swan._

**I wouldn’t let it go to your head.**

_Oh I won’t, but it might do dangerous things to Liam’s ego. And we’re going to go to some famous restaurant downtown that, upon first search, promises it’s a “stylish spot for inventive fair and drink” whatever that’s supposed to mean._

**You’re a very crotchety guy, aren’t you? Really taking the veteran status to heart. And I’m going to eat pancakes, so go ahead and be completely jealous.**

_Are you making pancakes right now, Swan?_

**David is. I’m not allowed in the kitchen alcove.**

_Wait, kitchen alcove?_

**Mary Margaret’s apartment isn’t really all that big.**

_You know I can make pancakes._

**Was there a competition I wasn’t aware of?**

Emma could practically _hear_ him shrugging, could see the smirk on his face as clearly as if he were sitting on the other end of the couch and Mary Margaret’s smile was probably frozen on her face this point, all knowing and obvious and she needed to eat pancakes and find her own apartment where she could text without judgement.

_I am paid to play a sport, love, competitive is kind of how I operate. And also that’s the only thing I can really make._

**Don’t make empty promises, Jones. Pancakes are serious business.**

_I’m not in the habit of making empty anything and I can make very good pancakes._

David must have actually been lifting his feet off the ground, stomping across the floor on his walk from the kitchen alcove to the couch and even Mary Margaret lifted one eyebrow to look at him speculatively.

“What’s going on with you?” Emma asked, glancing up at David and the plates he had precariously gripped in both hands. She pushed up off the couch, grabbing a plate and the cup he, somehow, had gripped in the crook of his elbow, shaking her head at how _obvious_ he was. Older brother mode, it appeared, had been officially activated.

“I could ask you the same question,” David said, nearly falling into the cushion in between Emma and Mary Margaret and swinging his feet up on the coffee table.

“Nope,” Mary Margaret muttered immediately, popping her lips on the syllable as she all but _chomped_ down on a piece of bacon. David pulled his feet off the table, repentant look on his face for all of five seconds before he stared accusingly at Emma.

“Nope,” she repeated. His shoulders sagged and Mary Margaret nearly choked on the bacon. Emma leaned forward, resting her plate on her knee and grabbing her one more time, careful not to smudge her screen.

**Color me intrigued.**

It took a few minutes for him to answer – probably something about getting his bag and dealing with Will and they’d only _just_ landed. Emma’s heart was going to actually pound out of her chest. That probably would have been awkward in between the pancakes and the bacon and right in front of David and Mary Margaret.

_That makes two of us, Swan._

Emma bit her lip, tugging it back behind her teeth until she almost winced from the pain and flipped her phone over.

Fuck.

* * *

“How’d the GD kid go yesterday?” Ruby asked, swinging her legs over the top of Emma’s desk in a move that was both impressive and bordering on dangerous.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Emma muttered. She glanced up from her spot on the floor, surrounded by, no less than, a dozen piles of papers – two of which were just graphs about attendance for the season-opening event over the last five seasons, three were names of season ticket holds, one was _legacy_ players that they had to invite to show up and prove that the Rangers were a _family_ and two others were ideas about catering from the in-house company at the Garden and a list of player food demands that, apparently, had to be met on pain of death.

That didn’t add up to twelve.

Emma didn’t care. She had no idea what the other piles of paper were. She only knew she was vaguely overwhelmed and there were only two weeks until the season opener against the Islanders and she’d started checking the weather obsessively because there was a _chance_ it might rain.

She might actually have some sort of breakdown on 33rd Street if it rained.

There was no way to order enough tent to cover an entire city block. Probably. She hadn’t actually looked into it. She probably should.

Ruby waved Emma off, tilting back on the chair as if she were trying to prove just how _alive_ she was. Emma rolled her eyes, grabbing a notebook covered in scribbles and half-thoughts and she practically ripped the paper in half when she dragged the pen across it –  _TENTS TENTS TENTS._

“What does that say?” Ruby asked, peering over the edge of the desk. “Tenants? Tests?”  
  
“Tents,” Emma snapped.

Ruby hummed, all four feet of the chair landing loudly on the floor and the fancy carpet that had come with Emma’s office didn’t actually reach behind her desk. “Why are you writing out tents ten thousand times like a crazy person?”  
  
“It’s literally three times.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What if it rains?”  
  
“When?”  
  
“In two weeks.”  
  
“Then it rains. You can’t possibly think you have to control the weather, do you Em?” Emma sighed, grumbling out something that might have been a response and Ruby actually had the audacity to laugh. “If it rains, it rains and people will still show up. I think you’re underestimating the dedication of this fan base and season-ticket holders who pay an absolutely absurd amount of money to go to these games.”  
  
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better,” Emma muttered, staring at the piles of paper around her.

“Tell Merida to look for tents if you’re worried then,” Ruby said reasonably. Emma wasn’t interested in reasonable. She was interested in plans and certainty and she was absolutely the control freak David regularly accused her of being. “That’s, literally, why she’s here. So you don’t have some sort of mental breakdown before the season even starts.”  
  
“No one is having a mental breakdown.”  
  
Maybe.

Hopefully. She just need to be better at delegating. Or not worrying about the weather two weeks from now. Or thinking about how her phone hadn’t buzzed again the night before and she’d never answered and maybe _that_ was what Emma was most worried about.

What a goddamn disaster.

Ruby had moved away from her desk at some point and found a patch of carpet that wasn’t covered in Emma’s paper towers, sinking down onto the blue and white fabric and leveling her with a look that probably could have given Mary Margaret a run for its money in the _knowing_ department.

“What are you really worried about?” Ruby asked. “You could do this in your sleep. And you never answered my question about the GD kid.”  
  
“Henry,” Emma said quickly, grabbing her phone to type out a brand-new set of tent-based directions for Merida. She responded almost immediately and Emma almost felt bad that she’d somehow groomed her assistant to be on constant alert in the span of two weeks.

Ruby pulled back, tilting her head and the highlights in her hair seemed to dull in the wake of her confusion. Emma had lost her mind. “What?” she asked.

“The GD kid. His name is Henry. He has a name.”  
  
Ruby blinked once, lips a straight line of _something_ and she nodded slowly. “You know Aurora wasn’t particularly pleased that you did all of that. It I guess the people at the house he’s living at weren’t too happy he got on the ice without permission.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, sighing with every ounce of drama she could muster. “Please,” she sighed. “It was fine. Henry loved it. He’ll be talking about that afternoon for the rest of his life. Killian made sure…”  
  
Ruby’s eyebrows nearly shot off her forehead and Emma snapped her mouth shut, jaw clicking into place for extra emphasis. “Killian made sure?”

“If you already talked to Aurora about Henry getting on the ice, then I’m sure you already know that Killian came down and he was the one who got him on the ice in the first place.”  
  
“That wasn’t the plan, though was it?”

It hadn’t been. The kids were supposed to meet some of the team – Phillip the Rookie and Robin and probably Arthur if he had time before practice – and then they were supposed to get signed merch and seats in section 113 and they’d get to watch a few drills.

Killian wasn’t even supposed to be involved.  
  
“How do you know that?” Emma asked, ignoring the vibrating phone in her pocket. _Her_ phone – not her work phone, not Merida.

“I know everything,” Ruby said, a picture of modesty in the middle of Emma’s office. “And there _was_ an itinerary and I don’t remember Killian Jones being on it.”  
  
Emma groaned, but mostly so she could try and drown out the sound of her still-vibrating phone, and Ruby’s smile looked almost predatory in its understanding, eyes flashing brightly when she moved her eyebrows again.

So, Emma did what she did best, she ignored the topic completely.

She had a job to do.

“Did you know that Will Scarlet can’t eat gluten?” Emma asked, appreciating the way Ruby’s shoulders sagged when she didn’t immediately give in to the conversation. Professional. Emma was a goddamn professional.

And her phone was actually shaking in her pocket now.

Stupid, persistent asshole.

She was smiling. And Ruby was staring at her like she’d never actually seen her before.

“I didn’t know that actually,” Ruby muttered. “Although that would explain why A’s always complaining about how long it takes him to order things at the restaurant. Oh, speaking of which, you going later?”  
  
“Going where?”  
  
Ruby widened her eyes, making a face that was only slightly insulting, staring at Emma as if the answer was painfully obvious. “The restaurant. It’s the first game of the year.”  
  
“It’s a preseason game.”  
  
“Technicalities,” Ruby said, waving her hand through the air again and Emma nearly gasped when she almost collided with one of her carefully coordinated stacks of paper. “Anyway, that’s the norm on away games. We all crowd up town and cheer and yell and it’s almost painfully endearing in a cliché kind of way. Oh, do you have a shirt?”  
  
“A shirt?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, like team stuff? Did they ever give you team stuff?”  
  
“You mean merch?” Ruby nodded. “No, I mean, I’m not actually on the team.”  
  
“The Rangers organization disagrees,” Ruby said emphatically, grabbing her phone and typing out a quick message. “There. You’ll have a shirt to wear uptown in approximately five minutes depending on how quickly Mer can get on the elevator.”  
  
“Are you texting my assistant?” Emma asked, doing her best to sound scandalized. She was mostly just impressed.

Ruby shrugged. “I’m helping you. If you show up at Eric’s without team-branded clothing they’ll laugh you out the door. Even Mary Margaret and David know the rules.”  
  
“Are they coming too?”  
  
“David is practically losing his mind at the idea of it. Thinks it makes him part of the roster or something.”  
  
“This is insane.”  
  
Ruby hummed, but it wasn’t a disagreement. Emma snapped her head away when she heard the quiet knock on the door, catching sight of a flash of red hair and a piece of fabric clenched tightly in her hand. “Jeez,” Emma mumbled. “Did you run up here, Mer?”  
  
She twisted her eyebrows, thumb still moving across the screen of her phone as she tossed the t-shirt Emma’s direction. “I was on my way up anyway” she said. “I figured you didn’t have any merch and if you were going uptown later you’d have to wear some.”  
  
Emma held her hands up, shirt landing on her knee, and Ruby was hysterical, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut as her whole body shook with her laughter. “And,” Merida continued, “there’s apparently some company in Bed-Stuy that makes like industrial size tents. So we can rent something from there once we get a bit closer to the day. The guy there already told me they’d be willing to set-up day-of if they have to.”  
  
“You are a miracle worker,” Emma said, meaning every letter. Merida’s face turned the same color as her hair and scuffed her feet over the carpet.

“See, Em,” Ruby muttered, pushing back up and sitting on the edge of the desk. “One less thing to worry about.”

Emma nodded, pulling the t-shirt off her knee and shaking out the fabric to make sure she wouldn’t drown in it when she, apparently, showed up at Eric’s restaurant later that night. And then her eyes nearly fell out of her head. “Is this a joke?” Emma sighed.

Ruby was hysterical again.

“What?” Merida asked, a picture of innocence as the blush started to recede from her cheeks. “I just figured you’d want to get the best of the best from the get-go.”  
  
“Oh man,” Ruby laughed. “You are some kind of miracle worker, Merida. Maybe now she’ll finally admit to whatever is going on.”  
  
“Is something going on?”  
  
“No,” Emma said, hissing out the letters, but Ruby didn’t stop laughing. The ‘C’ on the t-shirt was practically taunting her and she didn’t even have to turn around to know what name and number was on the back.

She looked anyway.

Jones. 20.

They’d given her Killian Jones’s t-shirt.

And, just like that, Emma’s phone buzzed again.

“You should probably stop ignoring Mary Margaret,” Ruby said, nodding towards the sound in Emma’s pocket. “Sounds like she’s having some sort of wedding crisis.”  
  
“It’s probably Ruth,” Emma muttered. It almost sounded like the truth. It, at least, seemed to placate Ruby and even Merida looked a bit sympathetic to Emma’s role as maid of honor and text-message freakout recipient.

_Did you know that the first-ever Ice Capades was held in Pittsburgh?_

_Pittsburgh, also known as the City of Bridges, currently has 446 bridges within its city limits. Which is, you know, just absurd._

_You’re killing me here, Swan. Did you know Heinz ketchup originated in Pittsburgh?_

She was smiling, she could feel it on her face, muscles shifting just a bit around her lips and he wasn’t just _charming,_ he was an absolute nerd – chock-full of facts that, Emma was convinced, no one else in the history of the world knew.

Except the ketchup one.

Everyone knew the ketchup one.

**That last fact is cheating. The Steelers play at Heinz Field. Everyone knows that.**

**Also. Did you know that the Penguins used to have a blue and white color scheme, but they changed to black and gold to match the Steelers? And the Bruins tried to stop it, claiming they had a monopoly on the color scheme and the NHL basically laughed at them.**

_The NHL laughed at them? That just seems rude. Are you going to Eric’s later?_

**You knew about that?!? And didn’t say anything?  
**  
_I know everything, Swan, we’ve been over this. And, yeah, it’s like an away game thing. Gina and Rol will be there too._

**Ah, well, at least I know there’ll be someone to stare angrily at me while I eat.**

_She wouldn’t do that in front of Rol. Just make sure you wear team-stuff. They won’t let you in otherwise._

**Yeah, Rubes mentioned that. I’ve got it covered.**

_Yeah?_

**Yeah. Shouldn’t you be at walk-through?**

_I was trying to entertain you with fun-facts about this city, Swan._

**Consider me fully entertained. Go skate.**

_Yes ma’am._

Ruby was staring at her. Merida was staring at her. And Emma was still smiling.

“What?” she asked and both of them just raised their eyebrows and shook their heads and neither one of them actually answered the question. “Alright,” Emma continued, throwing the t-shirt in the general direction of her bag and coat. “Let’s talk about season ticket holders.”

They didn’t stop at season-ticket holders, they talked about entertainment options and food options and where to put all of that food, especially if it _did_ rain and raffles and signed sticks and Will Scarlet’s aversion to gluten.

And by the time they’d talked about all of that – spending far more time on gluten than Emma realized was even possible – it was almost six o’clock and she barely had time to stop at the apartment and change before making it four blocks to Eric’s restaurant and some sort of New York Rangers tradition she was now a part of.

She knew Killian wouldn’t have his phone – he was probably already on the ice, but Emma had smashed through the rules and she did tell him she didn’t care and, well, he kept texting her facts about Pittsburgh.

He kept flirting with her.

There wasn’t anything wrong with turning the tables so to speak. Right? Right. He’d see it after the game. And maybe if it got him to widen his eyes a bit and make his breath catch in his throat, then, well, Emma reasoned it would be worth it.

So she put the t-shirt on and tugged on a pair of jeans and boots and pulled her hair up so the ‘C’ on her shoulder was nothing short of obvious. It wasn’t the best photo ever taken in the history of slightly-flirty text messages sent to the captain of the New York Rangers, vaguely blurry because she couldn’t quite stop her hand from shaking completely, but Emma was smiling and it was clear she was wearing his jersey.

Or t-shirt.

Whatever. The specifics weren’t important.

She typed a message underneath before she could actually lose her nerve, doing her best to make sure she didn’t look at her own photo for too long and Emma exhaled loudly when she finally hit send.

**Good luck.**

* * *

The restaurant was packed – a sea of blue and white and, on occasion, some red – and Eric had actually put up one of the lights that sat behind every NHL goal in the entire league, already flashing despite the fact that the only thing on the screen was a muted pre-game show.

Emma was half a step through the door, eyes scanning the room in a desperate attempt to find Mary Margaret or David or Ruby or even Ariel, someone who wouldn’t make some sort of loud and vaguely obnoxious comment about the t-shirt she was wearing.

Maybe she should just try and find Mary Margaret.

Emma was three quarters of the way to convinced that was the perfect plan, breathing picking just a bit until it was bordering on the edge of _heavy,_ when she felt a very solid force collide with the side of her very solid leg.

She glanced down to find a mess of brown hair and a child-sized jersey pressed up against her. “Hi,” Roland mumbled, voice almost unintelligible against the fabric of Emma’s jeans. He was wearing his dad’s jersey.

“Hi Roland,” Emma laughed. She tugged him away from her leg to find him grinning at her and there was something to be said for adorable because any ideas she had at leaving were gone as soon as the six-year-old ran into her. “You ready for the game?”  
  
“It’s only preseason,” he said quickly and Emma got the distinct impression that wasn’t the first time he’d said that phrase that night.

She nodded solemnly, certain Roland Locksley was not one to be trifled with when it came to the importance – or lack thereof – of preseason games. “But,” he continued, voice picking up just a bit and Emma crouched down to make sure she was eye-to-eye with him, “I’m excited to see dad and Hook and I don’t really like the Penguins.”  
  
“You know what? I don’t really like the Penguins either.”

Roland practically beamed at her, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and excitement was, absolutely, catching because Emma couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

“I like your shirt,” Roland said. “I’ve got one of those too. I only ever wear my dad’s during games though.”  
  
Emma’s heart stopped or her stomach clenched or something else that was, absolutely, medically impossible, but she did her best to keep the smile on her face. She hadn’t really expected a six-year-old to be the first one to ask her about her shirt. Or Killian’s shirt. She was wearing Killian’s shirt.

“Rol,” Regina said, appearing out of the crowd suddenly and Emma nearly fell back on her heels. “You can’t just run away. The game’s about to start.”  
  
“I wanted to see Emma,” he countered, glancing over his shoulder. “She’s friends with Hook. Look at her shirt.”

Regina Mills-Locksley was just as intimidating as Emma remembered from the one conversation they’d had the day before. She was all dark hair and slightly narrowed eyes – except when she was looking at Roland, Emma noted quickly – and another sensible paint suit that must have been tailored because there was no way clothes just _fit_ like that.

She raised one eyebrow at Emma – still crouched on her haunches to stay level with Roland – and held out her hand, the ring on her finger practically blinding even in the dim light of the ridiculously crowded restaurant.

Emma took it – and Regina might, _might,_ have actually smiled. “It’s nice to see you again,” she said. “I see they told you about the rules.”  
  
“Ruby told me this afternoon.”  
  
Regina’s eyebrow didn’t move, but the ends of her mouth ticked up and Emma got the distinct impression that there was a _plan_ forming somewhere in the back of her mind. “Good,” she said after what felt like an eternity. “It was Ruby’s rule after all.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Regina continued, shrugging at the confused look on Emma’s face. “Right after Ariel first started with the team and offered up the restaurant as some sort of viewing party headquarters. It kind of grew from there and now everyone comes here for away games. Or at least when they’re not on the road. Are they going to send you on the road at all?”  
  
Emma made a face, lower lip jutted out and she hadn’t even thought to ask Zelena about that in any of the half a dozen meetings they’d staged since she started three weeks ago. She’d been far too focused on the Tarrytown event and then Henry and now the season-opener and her head was going to explode right there in the middle of that restaurant.

“Emma!” She snapped her head up to find Mary Margaret pushing her way towards her, twisting and turning through a, frankly, absurd amount of people. They had to be breaking some sort of fire code. “We’ve got seats back here!”  
  
Emma nodded, tugging on the end of her hair. “It was nice to see you again,” she said, nodding towards Regina who just hummed in response.

“Can I go too, Gina?” Roland asked. Emma’s eyes widened.

Regina’s shoulders shifted a bit, straightening or tightening and her lips were a thin line that had all but disappeared on her face. “You don’t need to be talking in Emma’s ear the entire time the game is on. She’s got...well she’ll want to watch the game.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Emma said quickly, doing her best to brush off the idea that she wanted to watch the game for whatever reasons Regina had in mind. “Honestly.”

Roland’s eyes lit up again and he was almost _too_ adorable – it just wasn’t fair. “See, Gina,” he said, dragging out the name into no less than twenty syllables.

“Well, Zelena did just get here,” Regina muttered.

“Go,” Emma said, hand falling on Roland’s shoulder. She nodded towards Mary Margaret, who’d appeared at her side, a smile on her face and her own team-branded t-shirt on and _she_ didn’t say anything about the name on Emma’s back. “Reese’s is a teacher. She’s, like, fantastic with kids. Plus, Rol and I can talk some hockey, right Rol?”  
  
“Yeah” he cried, jumping just enough that Emma’s hand landed back on her side. “Emma, did you know Hook’s only thirty points away from making the top five?”  
  
“Did he tell you that?” Roland scrunched his nose and shook his head back and forth, but Emma knew a lie when she saw one and Killian absolutely told him. “Ah, but it doesn’t count yet because it’s a preseason game, right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Alright, Rol,” Regina said, seizing back control of the conversation. “You watch the game with Emma, but you find me in between periods and then we’ve got to go as soon as the third’s done, ok?”  
  
“Ok.”

And just like that, Regina was brushing her lips across Roland’s cheek, ignoring the grumbling that came from the six-year-old, walking to the other side of the restaurant and the table Zelena had commandeered in the corner.

And Emma was alone with Mary Margaret and Roland and they’d turned the volume on in the restaurant, cheering when the announcers came on the air and they hadn’t even dropped the puck yet. It was a _preseason_ game.

Emma had butterflies.

It was probably because she was wearing Killian Jones’s jersey.

Or t-shirt.

_Whatever._

She didn’t say anything, or even move, for what felt like an inexcusably long amount of time and Mary Margaret glanced at her quickly before falling into _teacher mode_ . “Hi Roland,” she said, smile on her face when she tugged on the sleeve of his jersey. “I’m Emma’s friend, Mary Margaret. So you’re going to come watch the game with us?” Roland nodded, a bit cautious in front of another new face. “Well we’ve got seats over here near the screen and Ruby’s made sure we’ve got an almost endless supply of onion rings too.”  
  
“Onion rings?” Roland repeated, nearly shouting out the words.

Mary Margaret nodded seriously. “Non-stop,” she promised.

“Come on, Rol,” Emma said, holding her hand out. Roland took it easily and they walked towards the saved seats.

Mary Margaret was as good as her word and the onion rings keep coming for the first two periods of the game – the _preseason_ game, Roland reminded them every time someone doesn’t use that qualifier – and it was probably for the best because Emma could use them, and the six-year-old sitting on her legs as some sort of buffer.

No one said anything about her shirt.

They were thinking it – Emma could have been blind and probably would have realized that – but they didn’t actually say anything. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

“How did this all start?” Emma asked before the start of the third period, waving her hand towards the restaurant. It was a mix of front office and friends and family and, Emma realized rather quickly, significant others of just about everyone on the roster. She had the business cards of more than half the people there stuffed into the top drawer of her desk .

“Be more specific,” Ruby muttered, biting down on an onion ring mid-demand.

“This whole viewing...thing. Regina said the team-branded merchandise was your idea.”  
  
Ruby shrugged. “They have Rangers bars near the Garden and everyone does this, wears the shirts and cheers and they pump in the audio feed from the TV broadcast, but it’s crowded and people get wasted and no one from the team actually wanted to go down there on away days, so A and I came up with this plan when she first started dating Eric. I think he only agreed to it to try and get her to like him more, but now they’re married and everyone’s obsessed with these things and it’s well...a thing.”  
  
“A thing,” Emma repeated.

“It’s not LA, Em. We all like each other.”  
  
David nearly choked on his drink and Emma rolled her head to the side, glaring at him. He almost choked again. “Shut up,” Emma mumbled.

“I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“I literally said no words. You send out season-ticket invites for your event yet?”  
  
“Monday,” Emma said, breathing a bit easier now that they were back to _work talk_ and no one was choking on their drinks anymore. “Oh, God, Rubes, don’t let me forget about the blue carpet. We’ve still got to order the blue carpet.”  
  
“That’s why you have an assistant,” Ruby muttered over the edge of her glass.

“I hate making her do more stuff. It feels a little...I don’t know, aggressive.”  
  
“I will bet you a drink in the third that Merida has already ordered blue carpet.”

“Fine, fine” Emma shot back, twisting around the back of her chair to find her assistant a few feet away. “Mer!”  
  
“What?”

“Have you already ordered blue carpet? For the opener?”  
  
Merida blinked once, staring at Emma as if she were almost insane. “Obviously.”

Ruby cackled – _cackled_ and even Mary Margaret laughed, not quite able to turn it into a convincing cough immediately. “I’ll take another martini,” Ruby said. “Give me time to finish this one first though.”  
  
“You’re the most infuriating person alive, you know that?” Emma asked. Ruby shrugged.

The game was back on and they were winning by an almost ridiculous amount of goals, even in a preseason game, and Emma wasn’t quite certain when she started referring to the team as _they_ – probably between the jersey and texts about Pittsburgh and as soon as she realized she could still see Killian’s smile even if she closed her eyes.

Phillip the Rookie had played well, Jefferson notched double-digit saves in the first two periods and Will had picked up two minutes for boarding in the second that Belle claimed would help _ease him back into the regular season,_ something about working out that offseason aggression.

It had all been going according to plan.

The Rangers looked as good as advertised and maybe this _was_ the year for the team. It was, as Roland promised, the perfect season to win the Cup.

And who was Emma to argue with that?

“You ready for the third, Rol?” Emma asked when he arrived back next to her chair, hand hovering on top of the onion ring plate already. He nodded and climbed back on top of her, nearly kneeing her in the stomach along the way and Emma grunted slightly when she heard the whistle blowing on the screen.

It had been brewing all game – all _preseason_ game – extra hits after the play had ended, and sticks landing on the backs of legs and maybe in between shoulders and Hans Soyer hit and hit hard and often and he was probably closing in on the record for penalty minutes in a career, but Emma kind of hated him and she’d spent the better part of the last eight years decidedly ignoring him and his game and his hits.

He’d been the one to hurt Graham, skate landing on his wrist during the game in Vancouver six years ago and there had been so much blood, even the thought of it still made Emma’s stomach queasy.

Soyer should have been suspended.

He should have been out of the league completely – he wasn’t. He paid his fines and muttered his pre-scripted PR apologies on record and he kept hitting people whenever he could, even in preseason games that, strictly speaking, didn’t matter.

It had taken all of twenty seconds, barely even enough time for Roland to finish the onion ring clutched in his hand. Twenty seconds and there were punches and whistles and more punches.

“Who is that?” Mary Margaret asked, nodding towards the screen.  
  
It was tough to see, but Emma knew – didn’t even have to see the number or the name on the back of the jersey or the white ‘C’ on his shoulder to know – and she winced when a fist collided with the side of his face, shaking Killian’s helmet just a bit.

“Hook doesn’t normally fight,” Roland muttered.

“Normally?” Mary Margaret continued, as if Roland Locksley was some sort of expert on the fighting habits of the New York Rangers first line. He probably was.

“What the hell is he doing?” Ariel hissed, leaning her hip against the table. “He’s going to completely screw up his hand. Sorry, Rol.”  
  
“It’s ok,” Roland said brightly. “I’ve heard worse at practice.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Regina muttered, appearing out of nowhere and everyone had crowded around their table now, eyes staring at the giant screen on the far wall of the restaurant.

It should have been over by now.

Truth be told it shouldn’t have even started – it was a goddamn _preseason_ game – but no one seemed particularly interested in listening to the whistles and Emma actually gasped when Killian threw a punch that knocked Soyer’s helmet completely off his head.

The whistles came again and all three refs were involved now, tugging on jerseys and doing their best to pull them apart and it wasn’t really working. No one said anything, restaurant seemingly frozen in front of the screen and around the table and Emma could feel David’s eyes on her. Older brother mode activated – again.

And for half a moment she thought it would be fine, Robin on Killian’s side, tugging him away from Soyer as the whistles continued. They were skating away from each other, on their way to respective penalty boxes when Emma felt Roland’s entire body tense in front of her – six-year-old half a step ahead of everyone watching the game.

Killian shouted something over his shoulder, eyes dark and sneer on his lips and Soyer turned on him, skating around the ref in one quick movement. He had his hands on Killian’s jersey in an instant, fingers gripping the patch on his shoulder as he pushed him back against the boards – hard.

Roland made a noise and Emma glanced at David, wide-eyed and open-mouthed and he shook his head slowly.

“Get up,” Emma mumbled, not particularly concerned with who heard her. “Get up.”

Will was punching Soyer now and the whistles were never actually going to stop. Robin was crouched next to Killian, muttering something before waving his hand towards the bench and

Victor sprinted across the ice.

He got up – he just didn’t get up on his own. And he didn’t come out of the locker room by the time the final horn went off.

And Emma was more worried than she was quite prepared to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy preseason! It wasn't exactly perfect, but I require angst because of who I am as a person. As always I cannot thank you guys enough for the incredible response to this story. Y'all are the absolute best. 
> 
> Also the best is @laurenorder who fixed all of this. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

His hand was killing him.

No scratch that – his entire body was killing him, every single muscle and nerve ending and something in the general vicinity of his collarbone. It all felt like it was twisted and turned and pinched in a way Killian was almost certain was impossible.

Fuck.

Hans fucking Soyer.

He should have seen it coming – should have known as soon as the puck hit the ice and he went out for his first shift. Soyer wasn’t concerned with preseason monikers. He didn’t even seem particularly concerned with the fact that the Penguins had actually _won_ the Cup last season, had beat the Rangers in the playoffs and left Killian on the outside looking in when it came to postseason glory.

Soyer didn’t care.

He’d never cared.

He hit like it was Game Seven and, this time, he only seemed to be concerned with Killian – and taking out his knees.

Killian should have been ready for it. He was an idiot. Soyer had always been like that – hit first, ask questions later. Even at school. He’d set some sort of penalty-minute record at Minnesota during his sophomore season and walked around campus like that was something to actually be proud of.

He’d won the title with them – a fourth-line winger who’d come into Minnesota with Liam and barely saw any ice-time in the Tournament – and he declared after as well.

Only no one drafted Hans Soyer.

There was no press conference, no cheering family in the background or jerseys that inexplicably had his name on it as soon as he crossed the stage. That happened for Killian and Liam. It didn’t happen for Hans.

He, eventually, got picked up – by the Flames on a bottom-of-the-barrel free agent contract that barely paid for an apartment in Calgary – and spent the last eight years bouncing around the league, racking up hits and penalty minutes and two-game suspensions handed down by the commissioner’s office.

This was his second stint in Pittsburgh.

“Killian, I swear to God, if you don’t stop moving so much on this table, I’m actually going to call El, get her to fly to Pittsburgh and punch you in the face.”

He turned his head, shifting on the table again and Victor groaned loudly, rolling his eyes as he leaned back against the wall. “She’s called me five times already,” Victor added and, this time, Killian groaned. “The last one included the twins, so, you know, take that into account when you keep moving and threatening to hurt yourself even more.”  
  
He wasn’t sure that was possible.

Everything hurt. All at once.

He didn’t entirely remember the fight, just remembered throwing the punch and a right hook colliding with Soyer’s helmet and the refs had tried to pull them apart. It was a goddamn preseason game. No one was supposed to fight in a preseason game.

But Soyer wouldn’t shut up.

He kept talking and hitting and, aside from everything else, Killian was convinced there was a bruise the size of the entire state of Minnesota on the back of his leg from all the times Soyer had checked him in the calf.

And, for the most part, he’d ignored it.

It was a _preseason_ game.

He ignored it for two periods. They were winning. It didn’t matter. And then Soyer hit him again, knocked him against the boards and Killian could _feel_ the stick in his back, even through his pads, and he heard the muttering, even over the crowd noise and the whistles.

“It was your fault,” Soyer mumbled, pushing his stick up under the pads on Killian’s back and he was practically hanging over his shoulder.

That was enough. He saw red and heard the rushing in his ears and his gloves were on the ice before he’d really even considered any other, vaguely mature, _preseason_ -appropriate option. He hit him. Hard.

And Soyer hit back. Harder.

The whistles kept blowing and Killian could hear Robin and Will behind him, trying to pull him away before he did something stupid like get a major in a _preseason_ game. Robin eventually got a hold of his shoulder, almost dragging him towards the box, but Soyer wouldn’t shut up, was still shouting about Liam and the Cup and Killian might have actually lost his mind. He turned back around.

“It might have been my fault,” he yelled, “but the league wanted Liam. This team’s just taken pity on you, let you play goon for the fans.”  
  
It was a mistake. A bad mistake. One he normally wouldn’t have made in any other circumstance and this was on TV. Roland saw. Fuck, Emma saw. He hadn’t been thinking. He just wanted to hit Soyer again.

Hard.

He just hadn’t been entirely prepared for Soyer to charge at him, hands in his jersey and tugging on his pads and Killian felt his back collide with the boards before he’d even completely come to terms with the idea of fighting again.

In a _preseason_ game.

He’d gotten hurt in a preseason game.

“When did El call?” he asked, glancing at Victor who was still leaning against the doorway of the away team’s training room, arms crossed and legs crossed and a disappointed look on his face. “And where’s my phone exactly?”  
  
“Which time? The first one was probably as soon as you got hit, on national TV, by the way. A whole audience of hockey fans saw you act like a complete idiot on national TV. Times two through four were while you were in the MRI. And time five was just now before I came in here to tell you about time five.”   
  
Killian winced. He shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have let Soyer get under his skin, but he had and five phone calls later, he’d absolutely freaked out El.

She’d never say it out loud, but he knew, every time he stepped on the ice, she worried. And he’d never actually been hurt on the ice before.

“Did…” Killian started, but Victor just nodded before he could even get the question out.

“Anna called three times. It was like they were alternating shifts on the phone or something.”

“And Gina called me twice,” Robin added, stepping into the tiny room and knocking his knuckles against Killian’s shoulders.

“Jeez, Locksley,” Victor sighed. “Don’t hurt him anymore than he already is.”  
  
“The MRI came back already?” Killian asked, shifting on the table again so Robin could move next to him. He tossed his phone into Killian’s lap and the stupid thing buzzed as soon as it hit his shorts. Voicemail. “Oh, and hey, did we win?”   
  
“Preseason,” Robin muttered. “And Rol’s totally convinced you’re dead, so call him back at some point.”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes, ignoring _that_ particular piece of guilt-inducing information, and stared at Victor. “MRI?”   
  
Victor shook his head. “Your collarbone’s a disaster. Bruised to complete shit. But no concussion, at least as far as I can tell. We’ll get the MRI tomorrow and more tests tomorrow, so actually show up at some sort of professional time or I really will call El.”  
  
“No concussion?” Robin repeated, voice as serious as Killian had ever heard it. He glanced at him, eyebrows drawn low and he hadn’t really expected this level of overprotection. “Like, nothing?”   
  
“Tomorrow,” Victor said again. “We’ll know for certain tomorrow, but I mean, I’ve got a degree and I don’t think it’s a concussion. Just your regular run of the mill upper-body injury. I bet Ruby’s already got the release sent out.”   
  
“She’s probably just got a template at this point,” Killian muttered, running his hands through his hair. He needed to take a shower. They’d pulled him off the ice and gotten him in the machine and made sure his pupils still dilated properly, but they’d never actually given him five minutes to shower. “How long?”   
  
“Be more specific,” Victor said.

“Run of the mill upper-body. How long will that keep me off?”  
  
Victor shrugged. “The results come back tomorrow.”   
  
“You sound like a broken record.”   
  
“That’s because the answer’s not going to change.”   
  
“Guess then.”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Guess.”   
  
Victor made a face, finally, walking in the room and there really shouldn’t have been three people in there at the same time. “Probably the rest of the preseason,” he said under his breath, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud. “Maybe longer.”   
  
“Longer?” Killian asked, shouting the word and jumping off the table. That was a mistake. He clenched his teeth, hissing in the seemingly tiny bit of oxygen in the room and _run of the mill upper-body_ also apparently hurt his entire body.

“Sit down,” Victor said, taking a step towards him. Killian glared at him, but actually sat down, huffing slightly for good measure. He almost sat on his phone. It was buzzing again, a string of text messages threatening to send it careening onto the floor. “God, idiot.”  
  
“How long?” Killian repeated, grabbing the phone and silencing it before _he_ threw it on the ground. “Will I miss the opener?”   
  
“Cap, I don’t know,” Victor sighed and even Robin was shooting him disappointed glares now. “If I knew I would tell you. Honestly. But Soyer hit you and he hit you hard and A’s going to have a conniption over scheduling PT training. She called me three times while you were getting MRI’ed.”   
  
“Does no one have anything better to do on this team than make phone calls during games?”

“Preseason games,” Robin mumbled and Killian sighed, falling back onto the table with all the grace of someone who’d just been pushed forcibly into the boards of a hockey arena. “Also, you might want to answer that.”  
  
“What?”

“Your phone. El’s calling again.”

“If you don’t answer, she’s going to start calling everyone else,” Victor pointed out when, apparently, Killian didn’t move quickly enough. He grumbled under his breath – certain Victor was more right than he actually realized and almost surprised it hadn’t started happening yet – groaning slightly when he moved and grabbed his phone.

He didn’t even get a word out before the lecture began.

“Are you serious KJ?” Elsa hissed, each word sounding a bit more frustrated than the last one. He didn’t let himself consider the nickname, the way she’d used _that_ more than ever in the last two weeks or how her voice caught just a bit on the two letters. She shuffled slightly on the other end, like she was trying to shift the phone on her shoulder and her voice got a bit softer when she started talking to someone that wasn’t actually Killian.

“No, sweethearrt, he’s fine,” she muttered. “Yeah, yeah, he knows you’re asking. Ok, he knows you’re _both_ asking. Give me a few minutes, ok? I promise.” Elsa moved again and there were footsteps in the background and Liam’s voice as he tried to corral the twins before they could hear their mother screaming at their uncle.

“I’m fine, El,” Killian muttered, all too aware of Victor and Robin still staring at him expectantly. “Honestly.”  
  
She sighed into the phone, not even trying to mask the sound. She did, however, try to mask the sniffle – it didn’t work. “El,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair and wrapping them around his neck tightly. That was also a mistake. His neck, it appeared, was just as bruised as the rest of his body. “You can ask Victor. Generic upper-body. Not even a concussion.”   
  
“How long?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“How long will you be out?” Killian rolled his eyes and he should have expected the question. Elsa had watched as much hockey as Killian had ever played and she knew as well as he did which questions to ask.

“A few weeks. They’ll know more tomorrow.”  
  
“MRI?”   
  
“Already done.” She hummed in agreement and they’d jumped from concerned to clinic so quickly it felt a bit like whiplash. “There’s not anything to worry about, El,” Killian muttered, but she was scoffing before the words were completely out of his mouth and he ran his hand over his face.

“What’d he say?”

“Who?”  
  
“KJ!”   
  
“Nothing, El,” he lied quickly and it was painfully obvious how quickly she saw through it. Elsa scoffed again, the sound vibrating through the phone and he could hear the mattress creak when she sank onto the bed in her and Liam’s room. “It was just normal on-ice stuff. He’s always been a dick, you know that.”   
  
“Yup.”   
  
“El.”   
  
“It’s totally fine. It’s not like you’re going to miss the whole preseason now or he’s in the Metro with you this season and you’ve got to deal with FA stuff. It’s fine. Totally fine.” She paused, taking a deep breath and Killian knew she’d squeezed her eyes shut. “You know Gina called me the other day.”   
  
“Of course she did.”   
  
“Are you crazy?”   
  
“About which part? Hitting Soyer and getting my ass kicked or wanting….” He cut himself off, eyes darting to Robin was who was staring at him with narrowed eyes and slightly tilted mouth, his own phone held loosely in his hand.

“You’re not by yourself are you?” Elsa asked knowingly. Killian hummed in the back of his throat and he heard her shift again, the mattress making noise in the background and someone was knocking on the door – likely two someones. “Ok,” she continued slowly, “both parts, by the way, they’re both incredibly stupid.”  
  
“A rather pointed opinion.”   
  
“And the right one. C’mon, KJ, you can’t be serious. I watched it. You turned around and yelled something at him! Why’d you do that?”   
  
“He couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Killian mumbled and Victor muttered something under his breath that was also a _rather pointed opinion_. “I’m fine, El. A couple of bruises, no concussion, a few weeks off and I’m back for the opener.”

“Yuh huh.” The pounding on the door in Colorado was getting more insistent and he could even hear Liam’s voice now, shouting something about how he’d _tried to keep them occupied_ and Killian laughed before he could stop himself, more than earning the glare that was likely on Elsa’s face at the moment. “You know Charlie cried,” Elsa continued, an accusatory edge in her voice that had gotten sharper the longer this conversation continued. “Like actual tears on his actual face.”   
  
“Yeah, well, Rol apparently thinks I’m dead,” Killian sighed, pushing off the table and ignoring the combined gasps of Victor and Robin when he started walking towards the hallway. He also ignored the pain that shot through his spine and seemed to land in the pit of his stomach, settling there like a weight and making it difficult to actually move. He was finished having an audience for this conversation.

“You hit the boards hard,” Elsa said, voice catching a bit and there was more sniffling again. “It took awhile for you to actually get up.”  
  
He’d been in the Paints more times than he could count at this point, could walk the hallways without even thinking about where he was going, but the one moment he needed to find a few inches of space that weren’t surrounded by people and team staff and questions about _how he was feeling,_ Killian had come up decidedly short.

“I’m fine El,” he repeated again, sounding like the broken record he’d just accused Victor of being.

“So you’ve mentioned.”  
  
“It’s true. It’s just a rather painful reminder that I’m woefully out of fighting practice.”   
  
Elsa groaned and her laugh was shaky at best, but it was still a laugh and that had what he’d been going for in the first place. “Did you call Rol back and let him know you’re not dead?”   
  
“Not yet.”   
  
“You should do that.”   
  
“Aye aye, mom.”   
  
The laugh was genuine now and he could feel the smile inching across his face as he ducked into the doorway that was, somehow, devoid of people, leaning against the wall and gripping his phone just a bit tighter than normal.

“You’re really ok?” Elsa whispered. “Like for real, for real?”  
  
Killian nodded, fully aware that Elsa was on the other side of the country and not a few feet in front of him and he really was an ass. It had been a joke – a long-standing _thing_ with him and Anna, calling Elsa _mom_ whenever she dived into the deep end of overprotective. She’d practically perfected the dive when they were growing up.

She was the oldest and the most mature and Anna and Killian were the same age and not particularly good at listening to authority or coming up with plans that didn’t, somehow, involve public transportation or breaking the rules.

He’d always been very good at breaking the rules.

And if they had been the Four Horsemen growing up, then Elsa was, undeniably, the leader – even if Liam had thought he was for most of their teenage lives. She still was.

She fixed everything. She always had the answers and the plan and that thing she did with the side of her mouth as if to say _don’t worry, I’ve got this_ and every problem any of them had seemed to disappear after that. She made sure Anna had somewhere to go on holidays when she wasn’t traipsing the country – or the entire goddamn world – and she was Liam’s rock after everything and she always knew exactly what to say when Killian was drowning in self-pity and guilt.

And he’d made her cry.

Ass.

“Like for real, for real,” Killian promised and Elsa made a noise in the back of her throat. “Gina shouldn’t have told you about the contract thing. It’s not certain yet.”  
  
Elsa took a deep breath and the knocking had finally stopped – Liam’s footsteps sounding down the hall and he might have actually grabbed both twins and dragged them away from the door at this point. “It’s stupid,” she said.

“I thought that was your opinion on fighting Soyer.”  
  
“Both things. When did you even come up with this?”   
  
Killian shrugged, making an evasive noise and he didn’t want to have this conversation, crowded into a dark corner in the hallway of the arena in Pittsburgh. He still hadn’t showered. “KJ,” Elsa continued. “When? It’s got to have been brewing for awhile right, because you wouldn’t just spring this on Gina without actually thinking about it.”

He took a moment to marvel at just how well Elsa actually knew him before muttering an answer into the phone. “Oh,” she muttered and he could practically see the lightbulb going off over her head. He moved farther into the corner when he heard footsteps nearby gear being dragged down the hallway and they were probably going to leave soon. “When you left, right? That’s when you decided. I thought...I thought something was off.”  
  
She could probably read his mind at this point, Killian thought and he was a combination of amazed and frustrated all at the same time. Gina shouldn’t have said anything.

He’d left Colorado a few weeks before the season started – a few weeks before the surprise party that wasn’t a surprise party and Emma and, fuck, _Emma._ He hadn’t even looked at his other messages.

She’d gone to Eric’s, had been watching the game, had seen him collide with the boards and yell at Soyer and it seemed a bit too much to hope that she might have been one of the several dozen texts on his phone, but he hadn’t even checked and his stomach was way ahead of his slightly more rational mind, leaping towards hope like it was going for gold in the Olympic long jump.

Killian wanted to go to Colorado.

He hadn’t even wanted to leave when he did. He’d come up with the plan then, bag on his shoulder and car waiting in the driveway and a pair of kids strapped to his side like they were glued there.

Of course Elsa had known.

He’d come back anyway – he had a contract and a Cup to win and he’d run face-first into a sea of feelings and _wants_ and making out with Emma Swan like he was sixteen years old and sneaking around so the Vankalds didn’t find out.

Elsa probably knew that too.

“You can’t do that, KJ,” Elsa continued, unaware of whatever mental battle he was staging in the corner of the hallway. “Liam would kill you.”  
  
“It’s not really Liam’s call,” Killian mumbled, bitterness sinking into his voice without his permission.

“But leaving New York? What if you don’t actually win a Cup? You’re just going to give up on everything there? That’s insane. I mean you’ve got the team and your friends and mom and dad.”

“They’re _your_ mom and dad, El. Not mine.”   
  
It was angry and childish and not entirely true in the grand scheme of things because Mr. and Mrs Vankald were as much Killian and Liam’s parents as anyone could have ever been, but his whole body hurt and Gina shouldn’t have said anything to Elsa and he couldn’t seem to control his temper in a fucking preseason game.

Elsa clicked her tongue and Killian rolled his eyes, knocking his head back against the wall and running his thumb against his chin. “You should just hang up on me when I say shit like that,” he muttered, working a quiet laugh out of Elsa.

“If I ask you a question right now are you totally going to bite my head off?”  
  
“You’re going to ask  
no matter what, El, so I don’t know why you’re precursing it.”

“What about Emma?”  
He bit his tongue, tasting blood almost immediately and that was probably for the best since it stopped him from _actually_ biting off Elsa’s head through the phone.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks.

That was hardly enough time to change his entire life plan – or at least part of his life plan if Gina actually agreed to do her job and play agent and get him what he wanted. Three weeks wasn’t anything.

It was a blink, half a moment, hardly even enough time to take a deep breath.

It also didn’t seem to matter.

Three weeks and she’d inched into his life and his consciousness and, God, he hoped she’d texted him. He wasn’t just an ass, he was a selfish ass who actually _wanted_ Emma to be worried about him, wanted tangible evidence that she hadn’t just been watching, but that she might actually care.

He cared. A lot.

And he was smiling again – wider than he had all night, crouched in the corner of this doorway like an idiot, thinking about Emma Swan.

Three weeks.

“What about her?” Killian asked, doing his best to keep his voice even and he knew he’d come up on the wrong end of that as soon as Elsa stared to laugh.

“You kiss her yet? Locksley thinks you have.”  
  
“Jeez, El.”   
  
“Anna doesn’t think you have. She thinks you’re chickening out.”   
  
“I haven’t even told Anna.”   
  
“Grapevine or whatever.”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows, but he wasn’t quite as frustrated as he expected himself to be. “That grapevine didn’t happen to just be you, did it?”

“Would I do that?”  
  
“I think you already did.”   
  
“She was asking,” Elsa cried. “You kept dodging her questions and you wouldn’t answer her texts and she’s in the middle of nowhere shooting now. She deserves a bit of entertainment.”   
  
“Ah, so I’m entertainment for Anna now, huh?”   
  
Elsa sighed. “Of course not. We both just want you to be happy, KJ. And you haven’t...anyway, I just think you should be willing to let yourself want something. I _know_ you and you told me her name. You didn’t even tell Liam that.”   
  
She was right. Of course. It was a day ending in ‘y,’ so of course Elsa was right.

Except they hadn’t actually _talked_ about it and Emma had told Henry _something_ and there was still something _off_ , something he couldn’t quite put his finger on or define and he couldn’t bring himself to push.

Three weeks, after all, wasn’t a very long time.

“We’ll see, El,” Killian said evasively. “It’s just...it is what it is now.”  
  
“She go to Eric’s?”   
  
“She works for the team.”   
  
“Didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“As far as I know.”   
  
“And you know this…”   
  
“El.” She made a noise in the back of her throat, a mix of confusion and interest and a, frankly, pitiful attempt at innocence and Killian couldn’t even bring himself to sigh at the sound. “We’re talking,” he said quickly. “That’s all.”   
  
“That’s all?” Elsa repeated and she definitely sounded like Anna now. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Anna had actually been listening on a third line this entire time. She would have shouted something by now. “Nothing a bit more concrete?”   
  
Killian groaned, earning a glance from one of the staffers hauling a bag full of jerseys towards the bus and he was never going to get to shower now. “Three weeks, El,” he said again. “That’s hardly any time.”   
  
“Ok, ok, ok, just promise me one thing, please?”   
  
“What?”

“Next time you play the Pens, punch Soyer right in the jaw. For me. Ok?”  
  
He barked out a laugh, leaning forward at the waist and wincing slightly from the pain of his run-of-the-mill upper body diagnosis. She absolutely knew – she knew what Soyer had said and why he’d yelled back and, now, why he’d miss the entire goddamn preseason.

“You’re a witch, you know that,” Killian mumbled. He could hear Elsa smile.

“Nah, I just know you. I’ll tell the twins you’re fine, but expect Liam to call as soon as you land in New York and yell at you for being an idiot. And critique your fighting technique.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I haven’t had to defend his honor in awhile.”

Elsa mumbled something – that probably wasn’t proper for the twins likely pressed on the other side of the door – but he knew she was still smiling. “Make sure you kiss Emma again when you see her too. She was probably worried.”  
  
Killian’s mouth dropped open, breath rushing out of him in one vaguely enormous huff and that actually hurt too and Elsa was laughing when she muttered a quick _bye KJ_ and the line was dead before he could even begin to come up with something else to say.

* * *

He did, eventually, get to shower, pushed back into the locker room by Will almost as soon as as Elsa had hung up the phone. There were even more messages by the time he’d gotten back out, phone battery dangerously low because the entire world, it seemed, wanted to make sure he wasn’t concussed.

“I told Rol you weren’t dead,” Robin said, lifting his eyebrows when he stared at Killian in the visitor’s locker room. “He’s very relieved.”  
  
"I’ll call him,” Killian promised.

“Ah, it’s late now. He’s fine. And you’re not actually dead, so crisis averted on that front. He’ll see you tomorrow and he’ll forget this whole thing ever happened. Although he might have something to say about your technique.”  
  
“He’ll apparently have to get in line. El said Liam was disappointed too.”   
  
“See,” Will said pointedly, sinking onto the edge of the bench without lifting his eyes away from his phone screen. “That’s why you’ve got to leave the fighting to the professionals, Cap. You know if you hadn’t gotten hurt I bet they would have given you a major.”   
  
“In a preseason game,” Robin added.

Killian shrugged, tugging his sweatshirt over his head and ignoring the buzz of his phone on the top shelf of his locker. “Why’d you do it?” Robin continued, glancing up at the noise. “I mean, I know Soyer’s an ass and he kept checking you all night, but that’s not usually your thing. Scarlet’s right. Leave the fighting to the pros.”  
  
He didn’t answer at first, grabbing his phone and widening his eyes at the string of texts from Anna, ranging from angry to furious to disappointed that he was _absolutely ignoring her now_ and Will’s breath hitched audibly in his throat.

“He said something about Liam didn’t he?” he asked knowingly and it wasn’t like Will to be quite that perceptive.

Killian still didn’t answer – and that was enough of an answer and both Will and Robin were standing and pacing and clenching their fists like they were going to go find Soyer that moment and punch him in the face, again.

“God what a fucking asshole,” Will muttered and Killian cocked his head to one side, an agreement without actually having to repeat the words. His phone _rang_ and Anna was getting even more impatient now and Will widened his eyes meaningfully. “Where is she even calling from?”   
  
“I don’t know, probably the tundra or something. She found service though.”   
  
“Better answer before she actually figures out a way to teleport through the phone.”   
  
Killian sighed, but somewhere in the middle of being frustrated about missing the rest of the preseason and Soyer’s words and how bad he must have looked fighting on national TV, his pulse had started to thud just a bit unevenly, realization seeping into his veins – people were worried about him.

She didn’t yell as soon as he answered, far more control than Killian realized Anna possessed, and he even got an apology in before she launched into her tirade, cursing him to a variety of different gods and a handful of various underworlds.

And he told her he was _fine,_ promised not to do it again and even managed to find out where she was shooting that week, four hours outside of Ketchikan in _Alaska,_ and Anna stopped yelling at him once he asked about her schedule.

They’d made it back to the bus – a half an hour drive to the airport and the private plane and Killian had never wanted to be back in New York more in his entire life – by the time Anna had finished detailing all the plans and the elevations of the several mountains she was planning to climb to get the _perfect shot_ and he rested his head against the window next to him, doing his best not to worry.   
It probably worked as well as it had for Elsa. And Liam. And probably Mr. and Mrs. Vankald.

Because if they were worried about him careening into the boards that night, then they were even more worried about Anna climbing mountains and taking pictures and it might have been her _dream,_ but it also scared him to death.

“You’ll be careful, right, Banana?” Killian asked, voice hushed so he didn’t wake up the already dozing Robin in the seat next to him.

Anna groaned on the other end – and she probably rolled her eyes too. “I hate that nickname,” she mumbled, but there was affection in her tone too.

He’d started calling her that the day they moved into the brownstone, butting heads with Anna almost immediately. She was loud and boisterous and she never seemed to stop moving and, well, they were the same age.

Even if Anna claimed she was _the older sister._

So he’d come up with the nickname, because even eight-year-old Killian Jones was kind of an ass and he enjoyed seeing the look on Anna’s face whenever he regarded her as a fruit. He wasn’t quite sure when it stopped being an insult and something important, wasn’t certain when she stopped scrunching her nose up at the nickname and, now, he called her that whenever he saw her, arms flung around his neck as she practically leapt on him.

“I’m serious Anna,” Killian continued, shifting in his seat slightly. “I mean, mountains? There’s got to be ice and snow and it’s freezing probably, right?”  
  
“KJ, you literally got thrown into the boards tonight and you didn’t get up for hours. Hours! And now you’re telling me I can’t climb a couple of mountains. Think of the pictures.”   
  
“Ok, several things, it did not take hours for me to get up. And I’m not telling you that you can’t climb the mountains, just to be careful. The pictures are, obviously, going to be awesome. That’s not even a consideration.”   
  
Anna didn’t say anything for a few moments and it might have been the longest she’d been quiet in the history of the entire world. “That was nice, KJ,” she mumbled. “You’re really ok, though? El said the entire preseason.”   
  
“I can be nice sometimes,” he shot back, earning a laugh out of Anna. He pushed his head against the window again, condensation sticking to his hair and his forehead and Robin was halfway to snoring now. “And yeah, at least that, maybe longer.”   
  
“The opener?”   
  
“I don’t know.”

Anna sighed softly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be, Banana, it was my fault.”   
  
“You know what else El said?”

“I can only imagine.”  
  
“That you’re spending some of your time in New York occupied with things that don’t have to do with your FA status and you gave _her_ a name.”   
  
“You two gossip way too much,” Killian mumbled. “And only about half of that was true.”   
  
“Did she call you yet?”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“The girl you won’t actually name.”   
  
Killian pressed his lips together. He still hadn’t gotten the chance to read his text messages – the number seemingly growing by the moment and he’d been far too much of a coward to actually check and see if Emma was one of them.

Anna clicked her tongue disapprovingly in the background. “Oh you totally didn’t check,” she accused. “I bet she did. All worried and nervous. Did she go to Eric’s?”  
  
“You and El should coordinate these conversations better, I’m just repeating myself.”   
  
“It’s not my fault you answered her before you answered me. That’s just you being a jerk.”   
  
“That’s true,” he mumbled and Anna made a noise that sounded a bit like a mix between a sigh and a groan.

“Maybe you should call her.”  
  
“Who?”   
  
“KJ!”

He smiled against the window, shifting his hand so his phone was pressed up closer to his ear and he nearly jumped out of his seat when it vibrated again. He’d talked to everyone _major_ already – even sent Mrs. Vankald a text so she wouldn’t worry too – there wasn’t anyone left...unless. Killian pulled the phone away from his ear so quickly he was certain he’d dislocated his shoulder as well and he tugged his lip behind his teeth when he saw the name on the screen.

Swan.

“Anna, listen, I’ve got to go,” he said.

“You make it to the airport?”

“Yup.”  
  
He could practically _see_ her lowering her eyebrows as if she was sitting next to him instead of a now-definitely snoring Robin. “Oh,” Anna laughed. “She’s calling you isn’t she?”   
  
“I gotta go, Banana.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, shoved aside for the girlfriend. Whatever. See if I call to make sure you’re ok after you get into a fight next time. I don’t care.”  
  
“Be careful tomorrow, ok?”   
  
“Always, KJ.”   
  
He pulled his phone away again to switch calls and, immediately, seemed to forget every single word he’d ever learned. “Killian?” Emma asked, nerves obvious in the tone of her voice and that seemed to snap him back to attention immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m glad you called.”  
  
“Really?”

The genuine surprise in her voice caught him off guard – he was fairly certain they’d cleared, at least, that particular hurdle. She had to know he cared, right? Of course. The tiny, persistent voice in the back of his head, however, reminded him rather quickly that they hadn’t actually had much of a _real_ conversation, usually too preoccupied with the kissing and then more kissing and Killian felt his breath hitch in his throat at the memory of her hand on his hip.

He should ask her out.

And then ask about her.

He wanted to know everything about her.

“Of course, love,” Killian said. She didn’t argue the endearment this time, breath rushing out of her quickly and loudly on the other end of the phone, like she’d been holding it for hours. “I, uh, I take it you saw the game.”  
  
“Did you talk to Roland? He’s convinced you’re dead.”   
  
“So I’ve been told,” he laughed. “Robin took care of that. I was too busy getting MRI’s and placating El.”   
  
Emma sighed again, hissing in her breath at the idea of an MRI and the bus ride to the airport probably wasn’t the best place to have this conversation – the first time they’d actually talked on the phone since the GD event.

“I know it’s fine,” she muttered, sounding as if she was half talking to herself. “Ruby went into full attack mode as soon as you didn’t get up immediately and I know...I know, like for a fact, you’re not concussed. She called Victor and got the upper-body diagnosis and I think she’s actually just got release templates saved on her phone because she did it all from the table in the restaurant at the same time we were all trying to promise Rol that you were ok and...I know. I don’t...I don’t know why I called.”  
  
She tapped her teeth together and Killian was certain it was the loudest noise he’d ever heard, or that might have been the rushing in his ears at the idea that Emma believed she _shouldn’t_ have called.

What a disaster.

“I’m glad you called, Swan,” Killian said again. “Really. I probably would have called you...I just…”

He didn’t have an answer – or at least an answer that didn’t paint him as the coward he was, nervous to call a girl like he was a teenager and asking Emma to prom.

That was the problem. It all felt a bit teenage and he _liked_ her – a lot – more than just someone he wanted to kiss every time he saw her. That too, but Killian wanted a lot more than he could remember ever wanting out of a three-week relationship that wasn’t really a relationship since they kept dancing around the subject of actually talking about it.

“Yeah,” Emma mumbled. “You didn’t happen to check your text messages, did you?”

Killian’s stomach fell on the floor of the bus, he was certain. He gulped quickly, not able to run his hand through his hair since _that_ hurt too, but he muttered _hold on a sec_ into the phone and swiped his finger across the screen, scrolling through his inbox to find two text messages from hours ago.

He clicked on Emma’s name and it was probably for the best that he was in the back corner of the bus, sitting in the dark because Killian was fairly positive he’d jumped out of his seat or been struck by lightning or something equally absurd.

She was wearing his jersey.

Holy shit.

It had happened before – he was the goddamn leader in jersey sales every year and half of those were women and he _knew_ there was a dedicated section of the fandom that really didn’t care about the goals or the points or even the Cup, was just worried about he looked in his jersey – but none of those people had ever been Emma Swan and none of them had sent a picture wearing his jersey and Killian couldn’t think straight.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, not quite able to take his eyes off the screen. She was smiling, hair pulled up and eyes bright and the ‘C’ on her shoulder was almost painfully obvious. He tried to take a deep breath and it didn’t really work, lungs apparently incapable of doing their job anymore, and Emma was still on the phone.

“Jesus Christ, Swan,” he muttered. “That was…”

“Ok?”  
  
“Better.”   
  
She let out a soft laugh that seemed to settle in the pit of Killian’s stomach or in the space between his ribs and now he really wanted to get back to New York. “I just...they told me the rules and we’ve been…” Emma cut herself off, probably tugging on the ends of her hair for good measure and Killian was smiling like an idiot at this point.

“We have,” he said, not sure if he was confirming something or just doing his best to make sure her voice stopped shaking.

He was glad she called.

“And I wasn’t really sure what protocol was on being concerned, but, well, I was. So, there.”  
  
“So, there?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma said. “That asshole kept checking you all night and he’s always been like that, the league should have thrown him out years ago.”   
  
“Wait, wait, Swan, do you know Soyer?”   
  
Emma clicked her tongue and Killian had sat up a little bit straighter. “Uh, yeah,” she said slowly. “I mean, not personally, but...it’s a long story.”   
  
Killian ran his hand through his hair, ignoring the pain and the far-too-tight wrap Victor had demanded he put around his chest before he even leave the locker room. “What are you doing tomorrow, Swan?”

“I have to work. Opening night thing in two weeks is slowly driving me insane. Did you know Scarlet can’t eat gluten?”  
  
“I did, actually. He complains about it, at least, once a week.”   
  
“Why? Don’t you have to be at the Garden tomorrow?”  
  
“Apparently there’s more tests and MRI results to get back and they might know when I can skate again, but, uh, you want to get coffee or something?”   
  
His voice stuttered over the actual question, groaning a bit on the _uh_ and he was the captain of the New York Rangers, it shouldn’t have been nearly this terrifying to talk to her. But then she’d been wearing his jersey and he hadn’t actually stopped thinking about her in the last three weeks and Killian was, absolutely, in over his head.

Emma didn’t say anything for what felt like several hours and for half a second Killian thought she was going to say no, something about the rules and smashing straight through them at this point, but then he heard her take a deep breath and he was positive she was nodding. “Hot chocolate,” she said.

“What?”  
  
“I’m not really a coffee person.”   
  
Every muscle in his body seemed to loosen at her voice, smile on his face threatening to overwhelm him completely at this point, and he hummed in agreement as the bus pulled up to the tarmac, half an hour coming to an end far too quickly.

“Hot chocolate it is then,” Killian said, pointedly ignoring whatever it was his pulse was doing.

“Ok,” Emma murmured. “That, uh, that sounds nice.”  
  
“Just let me know when you’re not dealing with Scarlet’s food aversions and we can go, ok?”   
  
She laughed and he still hadn’t stopped smiling, earning a very particular look from Robin when he finally woke up. “And maybe let me know when you land?”   
  
“Of course, love.”   
  
“Bye, Killian.”   
  
“Bye.”   
  
He stuffed his phone in his pocket, standing up and grabbing his bag off the shelf above his head, ignoring whatever it was Robin was doing with his face.

“What?” Killian snapped as they walked up the steps towards the plane.

Robin shrugged, nudging him forward down the aisle. “Nothing, Cap, absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guuuys. Guuuuuuys. I cannot thank you enough for the incredible response to this story and I absolutely flail over every single comment. It's the absolute nicest. 
> 
> @laurenorder continues to be the absolute best because she's fixed all of this. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

Emma refused to think about it.

If she thought about it, she’d start to overthink it and she didn't have time to overthink anything except catering orders and ok’ing the color scheme for the e-vites to season tickets and getting the right permits because she’d never actually organized an event this large in her entire life and New York City seemed determined to make it as difficult as possible.

There were so many forms.

She was dangerously close to going permanently cross-eyed, right hand cramping up a bit as Merida slid another sheet of paper across her desk with an apologetic look on her face.

“How many more could there possibly be?” Emma asked, signing the paper anyway and this one appeared to be something about crowd control.

“This is the last one, boss, I promise,” Merida said, eyeing her nervously as if Emma was going to dissolve into a puddle of refusing-to-sign-anymore-forms. She was close. “But then we’ve got to talk entertainment.”  
  
Emma groaned, drooping down in her chair until her heels scraped along the carpet and she wasn’t really even sitting up anymore, a picture of immaturity and exhaustion and she hadn’t really slept the night before.

She was thinking about it.

And absolutely overthinking it.

Killian had finally gotten off the ice and Roland had stopped demanding answers, after the combined efforts of Regina, Emma and Mary Margaret got him to, at least, take a deep breath.

Emma had been too focused on Roland to let herself give in to her own worry – and there was quite a bit more worry than she’d expected – but the moment kept replaying in front of her eyes for the rest of the night and the rest of the game, the way his whole body seized up when he hit the boards, neck snapping forward and he didn’t move for what felt like an actual eternity. She was positive she didn’t breathe until they got him off the ice, moving on his own, albeit a little bit more gingerly than normal.

She didn’t text him, wasn’t sure if that was _allowed_ and that in and of itself was absolutely absurd – they were grown adults, they were friends, they...kept making out across Madison Square Garden.

He probably had plenty of other things going on anyway. Emma wasn’t new to the game, she’d seen hits before and there was a schedule to follow, concussion-protocol and tests and it didn’t help that they were away either, nowhere close to Victor’s office or anything more than the MRI the Penguins probably had in the corner of the arena.

Killian had a family – pseudo-sisters with nicknames and an older brother and nephews and Roland – all of them clamoring to find out if he was ok and what happened next and Emma was certain she didn’t fit into that group at all.

They were...not that.

It had been three weeks. There was no way to be part of some inner-circle in three weeks. So she didn’t text and Mary Margaret stared at her cautiously when they walked up the two flights of stairs to the apartment.

David was the only one who said anything, pulling her into the kitchen alcove when Mary Margaret went to brush her teeth and tugging her into a tight hug before Emma could come up with some excuse about not being worried.

She was worried.

Three weeks and a few moments and he’d saved two events already and Killian Jones had gotten under Emma’s skin in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for. She was totally overthinking it – while wearing his jersey.

And David knew.

“Call him,” David muttered in her ear, shaking her shoulders slightly like he was trying to shake some sense into her as well. “I bet they haven’t even left Pittsburgh yet.”  
  
“You think?”

“Only one way to find out.”  
  
“But…” Emma sputtered and David was ready for the argument. He even smiled at her. And then he hugged her again, tighter and more meaningful and Emma was a mess of mistrust and disappointments and she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust anyone outside that tiny little apartment on the Upper West Side.

Except maybe…

“I know you told Mary Margaret something already,” David started and Emma’s eyes got dangerously wide before he held up a quick hand to silence the argument. “She didn’t actually tell me. She just had that look on her face after shopping and then you holed up in the corner of the couch and stared at your phone like it was the goddamn sun. Don’t insult my intelligence, Em. It was painfully obvious.”  
  
“What was?”  
  
“You like him,” David said simply and this all felt a little bit like high school. Emma’s breath even caught in her throat for good measure and she pressed her lips together tightly, willing herself not to actually say anything. She didn’t have to. David knew he was right.

“And judging by the number of times your phone has made noise in the last few days,” he continued, “he likes you too.”  
  
“I feel like we should be passing notes in study hall,” Emma mumbled.

David chuckled, eyebrows moving quickly and the smile on his face settled a few of the nerves that had taken up residence in Emma’s stomach. “Call him,” he repeated. “It’s ok to trust something.”  
  
There was that word again.

Emma exhaled loudly, shoulders sagging just a bit and the expression on David’s face didn’t change. “And what happens if I do and it blows up in my face? Again?” she asked, finally giving voice to that tiny, little voice in the back of her head. “I can’t...he’s on the team, David. He’s the _star_ of the team.”  
  
“You’ve just got to believe, Em,” David said. Emma rolled her eyes, but his voice was too serious, tone too meaningful to brush off completely and somewhere, deep down, she wanted to. Somewhere, deep down, she’d always been a little bit jealous of everyone else. “And, you know, if he breaks your heart, I’ll punch him in the face. No questions asked.”  
  
“You’d punch Killian Jones in the face?” Emma laughed.

David shrugged. “I think we’ve established he’s not much of a fighter. I think I could win.”  
  
Emma exhaled again, forehead falling forward to rest on his shoulder and she felt David kiss the top of her head lightly – older brother mode, achievement unlocked.

So, she called him and he answered and she might have replayed his reaction to seeing her in his jersey more times than she was entirely proud of. And she still wasn’t entirely _sure,_ wasn’t certain she’d ever be, but Emma _wanted,_ more than she had in as long as she could remember and, well, she’d called.

“Boss,” Merida said sharply, jarring Emma out of her thoughts and the idea of a maybe-sort-of-date with Killian that afternoon. No one had actually used that word.

Emma snapped her head up sharply, moving so quickly it nearly hurt and Merida did her best to not actually laugh – it didn’t really work. “What?” Emma asked, pulling her hair over her shoulder and Merida’s laugh got even more pronounced.

“Your phone.”  
  
Emma glanced towards the phone on her desk and her work phone – neither one of them ringing. Oh. She pulled the third phone towards her, trying to breathe in through her nose when she saw the message on the screen.

_Did you know that New Yorkers drink seven times more coffee than the average American?_

She was smiling in spite of herself, could feel Merida’s gaze on the side of her head and Emma almost, _almost,_ didn’t mind.

**Ah, but I wasn’t planning on drinking coffee. Seems to make your fact less impressive.**

_Unfortunately I couldn’t find any New York City and hot chocolate facts. Would you take a sole hot chocolate fact?_

**You have hot chocolate facts now?**

_I have everything, Swan._

**That ego. Go ahead, tell me your fact.**

_Revolutionary War soldiers used to get hot chocolate in their rations, sometimes instead of actually getting paid._

**That seems fake. I don’t think that’s a real fact.**

_Are you doubting my facts, love? That seems rude._

**Questioning. There’s a difference.**

_I wouldn’t lie to you, Swan, least of all about hot chocolate facts._

Emma was holding her breath – she hadn’t realized at first, only aware once her lungs started to burn in protest at the distinct lack of oxygen – and she had actually bit her lip at this point, pain shooting into the back of her mouth.

She pushed back up in her chair, ignoring the fact that, at some point, her right heel had fallen off her foot and that felt a bit too on the nose, a metaphor without really needing the metaphor. Emma had lost control. And she needed to get her shoe back on.

_I’m also, officially, not concussed._

She glanced up when she heard footsteps in the hallway, smile inching back across her face when she saw Killian move into her eyeline, just on the other side of the the wide-open door to her office. He was wearing that leather jacket again, all dark hair and dark shirt and, somehow, even darker pants and not a sign of team-branded merchandise, arms crossed lightly over his chest when he glanced up at her.

He was smiling.

Emma made a face, widening her eyes meaningfully and he just shrugged in response – as if lurking outside her office in the middle of the afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after he’d sustained some sort of generic upper-body-injury wouldn’t immediately draw suspicion and send a brand-new round of rumors across the Garden.

He had his phone out still, fingers flying across the screen and she wasn’t even surprised when her own phone _dinged_ in front of her. Killian nodded towards it as well, doing something ridiculous with his eyebrows and his smile hadn’t wavered once.

_Outside? Team exit? Like five minutes?_

**Yeah.**

“Everything alright, boss?” Merida asked, one eyebrow twisted and half her mouth lifted into something that almost resembled a smile. “You want to talk about a band? I’ve got a list of groups the team’s used before and…”  
  
“What if we did that in, like, an hour?” Emma interrupted. Merida looked surprised, head darting back when Emma cut her off. “I am all for talking entertainment, Mer, and I’ll sign every single form you’ve got left, because I know there are more. We’ll even pick the e-vite design and we can get those out before five.”  
  
“You don’t want to do all of that now?”  
  
“An hour,” Emma said quickly, eyes darting back towards the now empty hallway outside her office. “Maybe a little more than an hour. You deserve a break, Mer. We both deserve a break.”  
  
Merida’s eyebrows didn’t move and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I mean, it’d be nice to get some food.”  
  
“Get some food, Mer,” Emma said quickly, trying to grab her heel off the ground without actually getting on the ground. Her chair squeaked when she moved and Merida still hadn’t left the office and she was going to be cutting it fairly close to the five-minute marker. “Honestly, an hour is good.”  
  
“Maybe like an hour fifteen?”  
  
Emma hummed in agreement and Merida grinned, shaking her curls off her shoulders and pushing off the chair towards the hallway. “There’s totally more paperwork too.”  
  
“I knew it,” Emma said. “Reconvene in an hour and fifteen?”  
  
“Deal.”

She ended up being two minutes late, slightly out of breath and there was still a pen sticking in her hair from signing approximately one hundred different New York City forms, and the stupid smirk on his face when she rounded the corner of the team exit should have been illegal. Jeez, he was wearing sunglasses.

That wasn’t even fair.

Killian took a step towards her when he saw her, smirk somehow getting bigger when his hand landed on her waist, fingers pushing underneath her blazer as easily as if they’d been doing this for three years instead of the three weeks it actually was.

And just like that Emma couldn’t breathe again, mind racing a mile ahead of her and this wasn’t going to work –  _they_ weren’t going to work – no matter how much she might have wanted it. She wanted it a questionable amount.

He noticed, smirk falling off his face almost immediately and his fingers tightened a fraction of an inch, thumb sweeping over the fabric of her shirt as he took another step closer to her, somehow, finding a bit of space in between them.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth, love,” Killian muttered, soft enough that Emma could barely hear him over the traffic that never seemed to slow down in front of the Garden.

Emma nodded – a bit shakily – and did as instructed, letting the oxygen work its way back into her lungs and everything felt like it centered just a bit.

Killian didn’t move his hand.

“You want to talk?” Killian asked, left hand coming up to rest on her arm. She nodded again and his answering smile made it difficult to breathe again, for a completely different set of reasons than it had before.

He led them down the block to one of the half a dozen Starbucks within walking distance and they couldn’t just have this conversation in Starbucks. “Don’t worry, Swan,” Killian muttered, handing her the hot chocolate she’d ordered. “We’ll go outside.”

Emma reached around him to grab the cinnamon off the small cart of straws and cup holders and sugars. She tugged the top of her cup and poured nearly half the container into her drink, glancing up when she heard Killian make a noise in the back of his throat.

“What?” Emma asked sharply, defenses going up almost immediately and she should probably stop doing that.

Those zombie habits were hard to kick.

Killian shook his head slowly, reaching around her to grab a cup holder and Emma was fairly certain she didn’t imagine the brush of his fingers on her back. Or the way she felt her breath hitch at the absolutely unimagined touch.

“I’m just intrigued by your hot chocolate additions, Swan, that’s all,” he said, tilting his head back towards the door and they were on the sidewalk half a moment later, twisting through tourists and Garden employees and they’d have to go at least ten blocks away to make sure someone didn’t recognize him.

His picture was on the side of the Garden after all.

“At least mine will taste good,” Emma countered, falling into sarcasm far too easily. She was far too comfortable talking to him.

Three. Weeks.

Killian scoffed under his breath, taking a sip of the black coffee he’d ordered like that was proving his point. She wasn’t entirely certain what they were arguing. Or where they were going. He tapped his fingers on the back of her hand and Emma twisted her wrist out of instinct, letting him wrap her fingers up in his and tug her down the block.

He was holding her hand.

And Emma hadn’t run or screamed or done anything except let him – and maybe start to breathe just a bit easier.

She tried not to dwell on that either, wary of anything that resembled a return to overthinking and over-analysis and, well, his hand felt nice tangled up in hers.

“Where are we going exactly?” Emma asked, lowering her eyebrows when he kept walking them west. “Because I’ve only got like forty-five minutes before I’ve got to get back to work.”

Killian’s eyes darted towards her, smile back on his face as he laughed softly next to her. “You timing our date, Swan?”  
  
She stopped walking, hand falling out of his grip when he kept moving and Killian’s whole body tensed when he turned to look back at her, as if he’d only just realized what he’d said. A tourist ran into her, backing up to try and take a photo of the Empire State Building, and they didn’t even bother muttering an apology before they brushed by her, still frozen on 33rd Street, somewhere in between 8th and 9th Avenue.

“Swan,” Killian said slowly, staring at his feet and Emma saw his tongue dart out across his lips. “I, uh, I’m…”  
  
Emma blinked once and took a deep breath – and that wasn’t nearly as difficult as she thought it would be – moving through the tourists and across the few feet of sidewalk that had sprouted up in between her and Killian.

She tapped his wrist and she didn’t realize she’d hit his left hand until she saw the look on his face, smile a bit more strained than she could remember ever seeing it and shoulders a straight line, so full of tension Emma was fairly convinced he’d have to book another physical therapy session just to work some of that out.

Emma had never been very good at talking, never good at _expressing_ much of anything that wasn’t frustration or PR-based instructions and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to say anything, there in the middle of the sidewalk between 8th and 9th Avenue. Not when he was looking at her like that, nerves rolling off him in waves as Emma traced her thumb across the back of his hand.

So she didn’t say anything and she didn’t think and she didn’t consider consequences, just _did_ and she was on tiptoes before she’d realized her brain did whatever it had to to make sure she moved. He didn’t flinch when she kissed him and something in the back of her mind took notice of the smile on his face when her lips hit his, but she was a bit more concerned with the way his hand gripped her hips – in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk – like he was using her to stay centered or something equally sentimental.

It dawned on Emma at some point during the makeout in between 8th and 9th Avenue that she might have actually been obsessed with Killian Jones’ hair. Or at least the bottom of his hair, far too-long to make much sense for an NHL player who had to wear a helmet every night, but long enough that she could actually run her fingers through it and if he kept holding on to her waist, then she was going to keep tugging on his hair – especially if it got him to do that thing with his tongue.

“Not a date,” Emma muttered, not even bothering to move away from him and most of the words came out muffled against his mouth.

Killian nodded slowly, hair falling across his forehead, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened just a bit and his hand hadn’t fallen away from Emma’s waist. “Of course not,” he said. “Stupid to think otherwise.”  
  
She couldn’t think when he did that – muttered words and blue eyes that kept staring at her, tracing across her face like he was trying to _understand_ her or something and Emma was a maelstrom of emotions and feelings and wants that didn’t make any sense in the middle of the sidewalk.

Or anywhere else for that matter.

She had rules. She had events to plan. She wanted to kiss him again.

And all of it was making her head hurt.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Emma said, falling into determined and refocused in one quick step that made Killian tilt his head back.

“We’re here.”  
  
“We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.” He nodded towards the building next to them and the crowd that seemed to be walking in and out of the automated doors nonstop.

“B&H?” Emma asked skeptically? “You want to have some sort of conversation in B&H? It’s a department store.”  
  
He blushed, color inching up his cheeks until even the tips of his ears were tinged red and it was so goddamn charming Emma found herself pushing her heels into the sidewalk so she didn’t do something ridiculous like try and kiss him again.

“We used to come here when we were kids,” Killian explained. “Anna was obsessed. It was probably the only place in the entire city that could keep up with her, always moving and yelling. It’s actually not a bad place to be...not noticed.”  
  
That wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. She hadn’t really been expecting to have some sort of potentially _serious_ conversation in a photography super-store either, but Killian’s ears were still red and he looked nervous and Emma’s pulse was doing traitorous things in her veins. “Alright, Jones,” Emma said, grabbing his hand as she took a step towards the doors. “Let’s go undercover in B &H.”

He nodded once, fingers lacing through hers with ease and directed them through five different aisles like he could do this with his eyes closed – moving back towards the corner of the store and a section that was, almost, quiet except for the seemingly never-ending noise just above them, a track of packages and movement that ended at the cash registers.

Emma couldn’t stop looking around, eyes a bit wider than normal as she took in the scene – obvious professionals clearly frustrated with the absurd amount of tourists packed into the store trying to buy memory cards so they could keep taking pictures in the middle of the sidewalk and no less than two dozen workers, all of them wearing matching green jackets. It was hectic and crowded and loud.

And no one even noticed when she and Killian sank onto the floor, backs pressed up against the corner of a display that might have actually been telescopes.

They sold telescopes.

“You’ve got to explain this better,” Emma said, glancing at Killian. “What would a bunch of kids want to do in a store like this?”  
  
“Anna,” he corrected quickly, pulling one leg up to rest his elbow on his knee. “And four of us is hardly a bunch. That’s, like, half a bunch.”

“Is that the technical term then?”  
  
He laughed softly under his breath and his gaze seemed a million miles away, tracing back through memories and half a bunch of kids and a _family_ and, not for the first time, Emma felt distinctly out of place, nothing to bring to the conversation except a string of less-than-picture-perfect moments crisscrossing the country.

“Not if you asked Mrs. Vankald,” Killian laughed. “She used to call us the Four Horsemen.”  
  
“Jeez,” Emma made a face. “That’s kind of harsh.”  
  
“And probably true. It’s because we were all so close in age. I still don’t know how they managed to do it. We ignored every rule, mostly just to see what we could get away with. At least Banana and I did, El and Liam were always the responsible ones.” He made a face, rolling his eyes and Emma knew she was biting her lip. “They were the oldest. We’ve called El _mom_ for as long as I can remember.”  
  
“Did you just say banana?”  
  
Killian laughed and ran his hand through his hair, nodding quickly. “Old habits,” he muttered. “That’s Anna.”  
  
“Anna banana,” Emma said, smiling in spite of herself. God, this family was bordering on adorable and she was jealous. She was a horrible person. “I get it.”  
  
“She hated it for years.”  
  
“Which is why you did it, I’m sure.”  
  
He lifted one eyebrow, turning towards her and nodded once. “Quick on the uptake, Swan.”  
  
“Smart,” she said, tapping her temple for extra emphasis and the smile on his face was wide and practically blinding and she was still jealous.

“We used to come up here every other weekend so Anna could see what they’d just got in. She was obsessed. She’d run through the aisles like she could actually afford any of this, her parents could, she couldn’t _,_ and the manager on Sunday afternoons actually hated her. I’m surprised they didn’t hang her picture up on the front door. Don’t let this girl inside or something like that.”

He laughed again, grinning at Emma and his eyes were so goddamn blue. “It worked though,” Killian said. “She’s got all the equipment she wants now and she’s been everywhere, so she’ll probably start going everywhere twice now, just to prove she can.”

Emma was certain he didn’t realize what his voice did – the pride in each word and the way he sat up just a bit straighter when he talked about his family, despite the nicknames meant to irritate older sisters and the slightly offensive moniker Mrs. Vankald had dubbed all of them. And Killian Jones, _family man,_ might have been even more interesting than Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers.

No wonder they’d all been texting him so much in Tarrytown. They were drawn out of a storybook or something, ideas Emma had always _heard_ about in the houses and the homes, but had never actually seen in real life.

He had a family and people who cared about him. He cared about them.

And it was almost painfully obvious how much he _loved_ them – more than Emma realized was entirely possible.

It made her blink a bit quicker than normal, something resembling emotion shooting through her system and settling in her very center and she wondered, whether she should have or not, if he’d told any of them about her.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to or not.

“And where exactly is Anna going twice?” Emma asked, curiosity getting the better of her and doing just enough to quash whatever worry had taken up residence in every single one of her nerve endings.

“Oh, did I not say that?” Emma shook her head and Killian, somehow, smiled even wider. “She’s a photographer. Nature, people, whatever she can fit in the frame honestly. She’s on a mountain right now.”  
  
“A mountain?”  
  
“In Alaska.”  
  
Emma let out a low whistle. “So your family’s like some kind of over achievers, huh? Two NHL players, a photographer on a mountain, I’m almost scared to find out what Elsa does.”

“She works in the state department in Colorado. And she’s by far the most impressive one. She’s got like eighteen degrees. She could probably be governor if she wanted to be. Or president.”  
  
Killian ran his hand through his hair again and he was tugging on his lip with his teeth, somewhere between bragging and embarrassed. “That’s insane,” Emma said. He laughed at her, glancing up incredulously. “It is,” she continued. “The four of you are, like, completely messing with the law of averages. One family shouldn’t be able to be that successful, it just goes against the rules.”  
  
“That word again, Swan.” Emma’s breath caught in her throat and Killian noticed immediately, moving half an inch closer to her until his hand landed on her knee.

That was ridiculous – he shouldn’t be able to just read her that well. It had been three weeks and, somehow, she was starting to doubt that three weeks actually made much of a difference. “Open book,” he muttered, knocking his shoulder against hers.  
  
“Yeah, that’s not fair either.”

“What about you, Swan? Any deep, dark childhood secrets about breaking the rules?”

She moved again, a fresh wave of nerves and feelings that she wasn’t entirely interested in threatening to crash over her in the corner of B&H. “What?” Killian asked, concern coloring his voice. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Nothing,” she repeated, tone turning sharp almost immediately and his hand moved away from her leg. He twisted his arm, tugging on the ends of his jacket sleeves and there were so many people in this store, it must have been, at least, a million degrees.

She’d never seen it before – the colors inked into his arm and the letters and Emma knew she was staring. She didn’t look away.

“Who’s Milah?” Emma asked, words falling out of her mouth before she could really consider all the reasons they shouldn’t.

Killian moved quickly, standing up in a flash of dark hair and pushed down sleeves and he stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d even asked the question. He pressed his tongue on the inside of his cheek, lowering his eyebrows and that might have been the first time he’d actually glared at her, the feel of it shooting down Emma’s spine and making her sit up just a bit straighter.

“Someone from a long time ago,” Killian said, voice short as his shoulders moved with the effort of his deep breath.

He hadn’t turned around, hadn’t taken more than a few steps away from her, but Emma felt as if she were on the other side of the store and maybe she wasn’t the only one with deep, dark secrets or less-than-picture-perfect memories.

He was still breathing heavily, pulling the air in through his nose as he absently flexed the fingers on his left hand.

She wanted to run. She wanted to stand up and walk past him and this was _exactly_ why she didn’t want to have some sort of meaningful conversation in the middle of B &H. They still had to work together, they still had to see each other and if, _when,_ this all blew up in her face, Emma wasn’t sure she could handle it.

It was, she reasoned, because she wanted to kiss him so much, something about the way he kept staring at her, even through the glare, and how his hair kept falling across his forehead and the idiot had actually hung his sunglasses off his belt loop.

It was, simply, because they were attracted to each other.

It was, hands down, the biggest lie Emma had ever told herself.

And David was some sort of soothsayer because he’d been absolutely right the night before – she’d been worried and she was glad she called and she _liked him,_ an absolutely ridiculous amount.

Killian kept looking at her, eyes tracing across her face like he was trying to read her mind and he pressed his lips together when he came up decidedly short. He exhaled loudly, running his hand through his hair once more before he took a step back towards her and crouched in front of Emma’s legs, hand landing back on her knee like there was a magnet there.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“What?”  
  
“For pushing and…”  
  
Emma shook her head, fingers tracing along the curve of his jaw and Killian snapped his mouth shut, surprise flashing across his face. “I was worried.”

“About?”  
  
“You,” Emma said. “Yesterday. I was...well I was worried and I didn’t know if I should be and I don’t really do this.” She moved her hand in between the two of them quickly, ignoring the slow smile moving across his face. He hadn’t blinked once. “And we probably shouldn’t be doing this, all things considered, but you got hit and, well, I was worried.”  
  
“I think we’ve established you were worried, love.”  
  
“Don’t be an ass.”  
  
Killian laughed, eyes darting down and Emma nearly gasped when he looked back up at her, every emotion she was certain she could feel, but would be wholly unable to name, right there in his gaze. “Would you be mad, Swan, if I told you that I’m glad?”  
  
“That I was worried?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No,” Emma said slowly and the entire store felt like it was shaking or possibly on fire and she couldn’t hold his gaze. “I mean, I was...so there’s that. I just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Three weeks.”  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“Killian,” Emma sighed and he’d absolutely been doing it for the reaction, smirk on his face as soon as she half-shouted his name. “It’s just been three weeks and we’re all, whatever we are, and it’s kind of a lot. I mean we've totally given in to the set-up.”  
  
He nodded, finally sinking back onto the floor, but he didn’t move his hand away from her knee. “That’s true,” he agreed. “So what do you want to do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Emma said honestly. She hadn’t really been able to come up with an answer, too easily distracted by eyes and that stupid leather jacket and how much he loved his family. “You’re infuriatingly charming, you know that? If you weren’t this wouldn’t be nearly as much of a problem.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do about toning down the charm, Swan,” Killian laughed.

“You’ve just got everything here and I don’t want to screw that up.”

He lowered his eyebrows in confusion and even Emma was surprised with what she’d said, the feeling bubbling out of her quickly and easily and this was his fault. Killian Jones was far too easy to talk to.

Half of her wanted to trust him – to give into whatever mantra Mary Margaret and David seemed to live their lives by  – but the other half of Emma was skeptical and nervous and didn’t want to set herself up for yet another disappointment.

“What do you think you’re screwing up exactly, Swan?” Killian asked.

She held her hands out in front of her, twisting them in the air. “You know I don’t have my own apartment yet? I’m still sleeping on Mary Margaret’s couch.”  
  
“I’m sure Mary Margaret doesn’t mind.”  
  
“Of course not,” Emma said and she was halfway to that mental breakdown Ruby had warned her about, still sitting on the floor of B&H. “David doesn’t either. We’re basically sharing one room and a kitchen alcove and he’s buying me Pop-Tarts so I have something to eat in the morning.”  
  
“You eat Pop-Tarts, Swan? That’s disgusting.”  
  
Emma sighed and he’d absolutely failed at turning down the charming thing from the get-go. Or maybe that was just her general reaction to him now.

“And I’ve got an assistant who’s doing ten times more work than I am for opening night,” Emma continued. It all just spilled out – three weeks of worries and concerns and a certainty that she’d stumbled into some team of a family she didn’t quite belong in. “We’ve still got to send out e-vites and I totally _forgot_ to book a band and I’m not an event planner! I did PR. I was supposed to do PR here.

This team, though, it’s just...it doesn’t make any sense. You’re all too close and the whole restaurant practically turned around to make sure Rol didn’t completely freak out when you got hurt last night and he’s got a _nickname_ for you. God, it’s painfully cute. And you volunteered to help with the fourth graders and Henry’s obsessed with you.” Emma took a deep breath, biting down on her lip until it almost hurt and Killian didn’t look away from her, hand gripping her knee just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” he said softly and she couldn’t ignore him if she tried. “I wanted to do that. I wanted…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You. I wanted to help you.”

Emma’s shoulders sagged half an inch, the breath she’d been holding rushing out of her and Killian leaned forward – lips finding hers and his fingers made their way into her hair and it was slow and meaningful and in the middle of goddamn B&H.

“You’ve already done more relating to the community than anyone could have expected of you, Swan,” Killian said. “You’re supposed to be here. Opening night’s going to be fine. Better than that. Great. Maybe we’ll even win. ”  
  
Emma scoffed. “Please,” she muttered. “You know you’re going to win.”  
  
“As long as they let me back on the ice.”  
  
“So confident.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Well, I’m not concussed, so it shouldn’t really be that long. A few days off skates and an extra PT appointment tomorrow and then I even get a special jersey and no one can touch me in practice and I’ll be back for the opener.”  
  
“You’ve got it all planned.”  
  
“Most of the time,” he said, something flashing across his face when he smirked at Emma. “Maybe you could even wear that jersey too.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was mostly so she could ignore the rush of _whatever_ that shot to the very core of her being. “You know I didn’t actually pick that out. I was told the rules and got a t-shirt thrown at me and that was that.”  
  
“Ah, but you didn’t have to send the picture.” Emma groaned, but he was right. Of course he was. “And I might have thought about that a questionable number of times while we were on the plane last night.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Possibly.”  
  
“Awfully evasive answer.”  
  
“Ah, well anything more concrete seems to fall into some sort of vaguely overwhelming category.”

Emma hummed in agreement, lower lip jutted out just a bit. “You’re not very good at fighting, you know.”  
  
“So everyone keeps telling me. Liam was particularly unimpressed with my inability to actually knock Soyer’s helmet off.”  
  
“Why’d you even hit him? That’s his whole game. He talks and he acts like an ass. He was just doing it to get under your skin.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes at her and Emma realized she’d said too much – again. “How do you know Soyer, Swan? For real this time.”  
  
“He, uh, he hurt one of my friends,” she said quickly, rushing over the words as if saying them faster would somehow make this a less meaningful conversation. It wasn’t. It was big and important and absolutely overwhelming and they hadn’t even gotten to deciding what to do about how often they kept making out in public places.

“Who?”  
  
“Graham Humbert?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“No, no, I just wasn’t sure you’d know who he was.”  
  
“Vancouver, right?” Emma nodded. “I don’t remember him getting hurt though.”  
  
“It was a long time ago,” she said, eyes falling on her feet. “We were in Columbus and I’d only been in the league for a little while and I was still trying to get my PR footing. Vancouver wasn’t nearly as bad as LA, but it still wasn’t anything like it was here and I was by myself and Graham was my friend.”  
  
She didn’t say the truth – that he was the only player who acknowledged her in anything close to some sort of human-capacity, mostly getting mumbled answers and groans when she tried to do her job and it was no wonder she couldn’t seem to get her head on straight in New York. There wasn’t a team in the entire league that acted like this one, Emma was certain of it.

Graham never grumbled, never groaned when Emma had to do her job or force him into statements and media requests and he’d made sure she got consistently fed while she was in Vancouver.

He hated Neal too.

Most everyone seemed to hate Neal.

Mary Margaret still sent Graham a Christmas gift every year for being Emma’s physical shoulder to cry on when Neal had left, something about he was _doing her job,_ just in a different country with a slightly more Canadian accent.

“And Soyer did something?” Killian prompted.

“My second season, we were in Columbus and Soyer was a call-up that night. I think he’d been bouncing back and forth between the AHL, but they needed a winger and he was there. He hit everything in a Canucks jersey, but he seemed to have it out for Graham, like he was intent on taking out his knees or something. He did at one point, slashed him across the back of his calves and he didn’t even stop skating when Graham went down.

He cut him. The tip of his skate hit up against his wrist and it was...bad. Really bad. He needed like a dozen stitches and he was so pale when they took him off the ice. You couldn’t really tell where his jersey ended and he started. They didn’t even suspend Soyer, just fined him and he went back down for the next two weeks. I don’t think he stayed in Columbus long.”  
  
“He didn’t,” Killian said immediately, voice low and something just on the edge of it that made Emma lower her eyebrows. He wasn’t looking at her, eyes focused on a telescope and she was absolutely going to be late for her hour and fifteen curfew.

“He didn’t,” Killian said again. “He bounced around the league for years. He’s been on more teams than I can count.”  
  
“How did you know him?”  
  
“Played together.”  
  
“In New York?”  
  
He shook his head deftly. “Minnesota. He was always….well I think he wanted to be Liam. Everybody wanted to be Liam,” he added, laughing under his breath. “But he barely saw the ice that year and no one drafted him and he’s always been a little angry about that. I just kind of played into that anger yesterday.”  
  
“You yelled back,” Emma said, trying not to make it sound like the accusation it was. “I saw you.”  
  
Killian nodded, fingers trailing across the outside of her leg until they found Emma’s hand pressed against the slightly stained carpet they were still sitting on. “I’m sorry you were worried, Swan.”  
  
“It just all kind of came full circle and three weeks isn’t enough time to care.” He blinked once, mouth hanging open just a bit until he managed to school his features just enough to smile at her and Emma’s heart thumped wildly in her chest.

“Sure it is,” Killian muttered.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”

“You know I graduated from high school in Minnesota,” Emma said. Killian tilted his head, eyebrows doing something Emma would have normally thought was absolutely impossible as he stared at her. And she hadn’t really meant to say it and he hadn’t _really_ said that he cared, but the idea was there, audible even over the dull roar of the B &H crowd.

“Really?” Killian asked and he couldn’t have been pretending to sound that interested. He sounded genuinely interested.

He sounded like he cared.

Emma nodded. “Nissawa. There’s like ten people there and it’s totally surrounded by water and it was awful.”  
  
“A glowing review of Minnesota, love.”  
  
“I wasn’t there for very long. Graduated and got back to Boston and school.”  
  
He wanted to ask about that – Emma could practically see the questions on the tip of his tongue, the curiosity etched into the crinkles that showed up around his eyes when he kept staring at her. He didn’t.

She might have appreciated that more than anything.

“I wouldn’t have minded living by the water you know,” Killian said absently, thumb trailing across the back of her wrist and Emma hadn’t even realized he’d laced his fingers through hers. There was something to that, something about being comfortable or this being far too easy, but she couldn’t quite think straight when she was too busy trying to make sure he didn’t notice the several thousand goosebumps that had erupted up her arm as soon as he touched her.

He did.

“That’s where I used to go,” Killian continued softly. “When I ran, when we were kids. I used to go back uptown to Riverside. The one-train to 110th. There used to be a bodega on the corner, as soon as you got off the train and I could afford the coffee. It’s a Chipotle now.”  
  
“You still go up there?”

Killian shrugged. “Sometimes. I have a tendency to wallow every now and again.”  
  
She understood before she realized she’d even been thinking it, the idea hitting her as soundly and as suddenly as if the entire wall of camera equipment behind her had crashed on her head.  “That’s what he was saying wasn’t he?” Emma asked, Killian’s eyes darting up towards her quickly. “Soyer, I mean. He was talking about Liam.”  
  
“That last part wasn’t a question.”  
  
“I know.” He nodded again and Emma could see him clench his jaw tightly, tendons in his neck sticking out just a bit. “Does Liam know that?”  
  
“No, no, well, maybe. El does, I’m sure. She didn’t actually say it in the half a dozen times she tried to call, but she’s some sort of mind reader, so probably. And she probably told Liam. Scarlet actually figured it out first.”  
  
“That’s because he’s used to fighting,” Emma said reasonably. “He knows what to say to make people lose their minds and yell back when they’re already being dragged to the box.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, but he was still smiling at her and still holding her hand and Emma knew what had happened – she told him something, had _shared_ and he’d done the same thing right back, had answered her fact with one of his own, ducking his eyes and swiping his thumb across her hand and it was absolutely impossible not to believe him.

Or, maybe, believe in him.

Emma’s phone buzzed – a quick succession of noises that sounded like five straight text messages from Merida and she’d absolutely gone over her designated hour and fifteen minute time limit.

“You know,” Emma said slowly, ignoring the phone completely and earning a pair of lifted eyebrows from Killian. “I’ve never been that far uptown.”  
  
“What? Really?”  
  
She made a contradictory noise and shook her head. “I’d only really been in the city a few times on East Coast trips and a couple of weekends in the offseason to visit Reese’s before I got this job. I’ve never been farther up than her apartment.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“89th.”  
  
Killian let out a low whistle and shook his head in very obvious disbelief. “That’s disappointing, Swan. There’s a lot more above 96th Street than the guide books would have you let on.”  
  
“And you’re familiar with that?”  
  
“Absolutely. Where do you think I grew up before we moved in with the Vankalds? There’s a reason I still go to 110th.” He grinned at her, nodding towards her phone again as he stood up and held his hand out to her. Emma took it without a second thought. “You shouldn’t ignore Merida like that, love.”  
  
“I was supposed to be back fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
“Is that a compliment to me? I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“Of course you would.”  
  
He flashed another smile her direction, wrapping her fingers in his as he tugged her back towards the door and the sidewalk and the mountain of paperwork waiting for her. “We’ll get you uptown, eventually, love,” Killian said and it felt like a promise.

“And in the meantime?” Emma asked, chancing the question once they were back on 33rd Street.

Killian stopped walking immediately, coming up short in the middle of the sidewalk again and it all felt very déjà vu. “What do you want, Swan?” he asked, eyes intent and voice serious.

She’d never been good at words.

He was. He kept talking and being charming and smiling at her and he’d told her things, kept holding her hand and staring at her like she was as interesting as he made her feel. So, it might have been a mistake, it might, eventually, blow up in her face and they had a whole season ahead of them and a run at the Cup and the idea of not kissing Killian Jones that entire time sent a shockwave through Emma’s whole body.

They had just had to be a bit better at under the radar.

She surged up on tiptoes, one arm flung around his neck because he hadn’t let go of the other one and kissing him seemed as good an answer as any – tiny bits of those walls Emma had spent the better part of her entire life building crumbling just a bit when he tugged her closer against his chest and kissed her forehead.

“That work?” Emma asked, cheek pressed up against his shoulder blade. She felt him laugh underneath her, lips brushing against skin again and his arm tightened around her waist.

“Yeah, Swan,” Killian said softly. “That works.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't stop, won't stop just making out...everywhere. Also, I too love hanging out in B&H and watching all the stuff move on the track along the ceiling. I cannot tell you guys how much I appreciate every click, comment and kudos - the response to this story has just been fantastic. 
> 
> As always @laurenorder is a goddamn delight and fixes all my mistakes. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

“Five hole,” Killian yelled from the far end of the ice, tapping his stick impatiently as he waited for the rest of them to get back in position.

“Phillip the Rookie just did that one,” Jefferson argued, tossing a water bottle over his shoulder. It crashed to the ice – as much as a water bottle _could_ crash to the ice – and Arthur groaned audibly from the bench.

“It doesn’t count. You saved it. So I get to do whatever I want.”

“You did save it, Jeff,” Arthur called, finally looking up from the binder he had propped up against one knee, leg stretched out so his foot was nearly dangling off the boards. “Those are the rules.”

“See,” Killian shouted. He twisted his stick in his hands, shifting back and forth on the few inches of ice he was standing on, handling through some sort of imaginary obstacle that wasn’t there. “Now, come on, five’er and we make Scarlet pay for drinks later on tonight.”  
  
Killian glanced over at the bench in just enough time to see Arthur practically leap up – falling into near-perfect time with Will’s groan from the far circle – and he laughed loudly, pushing his stick underneath the puck until he was bouncing it on the blade.

“If any of you even so much as looks at a drink that is anything other than water tonight,” Arthur muttered, voice barely audible, but just as obnoxious as the whistle he still had around his neck, “I will personally murder each and every one of you.”  
  
Killian laughed, eyes moving towards Robin when he came to a stop next to him – dousing the top of his skates with ice. Arthur might have to wait in line to murder his team behind the building-ops crew.

They’d absolutely destroyed the ice.

Two weeks after he and Emma had gone to B&H and Killian realized she drank more cinnamon in her hot chocolate than any actual hot chocolate, he couldn’t seem to stop smiling or skating. The second part was slightly newer, just a few days removed from medical’s _ok_ on his generic upper-body injury and they’d made him wear a no-contact jersey for the first few practices.

Emma laughed for what felt like hours afterwards, tugging on the bright red fabric and muttering how it made him looking a _stop sign on skates,_ but she’d stopped saying much of anything when he kissed her.

He kept the jersey, promising Kristoff he had no idea what happened to it after the final practice he’d been forced to wear it and that was probably against the rules too.

Killian kept doing that.

So, technically, they hadn’t been on that real date yet – there _was_ a season on the immediate horizon and Emma had opening night to get ready for and, more often than not, Killian found himself sitting in one of the chairs in her office after practice, feet propped up against the front of her desk while she shuffled through paperwork and permits and responses from season-ticket holders about how well she was relating to the community.

He almost wasn’t dreading it, the event and the questions and the forced interactions with fans who’d also have questions about his free-agent status and, probably, a better understanding of the Rangers’ cap space than some of the beat writers who covered the team.

He was, almost, excited about opening night and the look on Emma’s face when she saw how well it all played out because, if there was one thing Killian was certain of, it would all play out perfectly.

She’d put in too much work for it not to.

They hadn’t been on that date yet, but they’d lost track of time in her office the night before and the rest of the building was probably completely abandoned at that point, closing in on midnight when Emma’s eyes widened at her laptop screen.

She mumbled an apology about making him stay so late and rushed around the side of her desk, all green eyes and slightly parted lips and they lost track of time a bit more, seconds feeling like minutes and minutes feeling like hours and he would have slept on that goddamn floor if it meant she kept her hand in his hair and her body next to his.

Five weeks – and two weeks after deciding to stay as _under the radar_ as they possibly could – and it felt like _something._ Killian tried not to think about that too much – tried not to remember that he still didn’t know what Emma had told Henry or why the ends of her mouth ticked down whenever he talked about Anna or El or asked a question that was anything more than what food they should get delivered to her office.

He still didn’t know enough.

And Emma hadn’t offered any of it.

He tried not to dwell on that.

“Come on, Cap,” Will called, banging his stick on the ice and even Arthur looked a bit frustrated that he hadn’t moved yet. “If you’re going to call your shot, you’ve got to actually skate. Locksley’s going to turn to stone if you don’t get going.”  
  
“Not to mention I’d like to, eventually, get uptown,” Robin muttered, glaring in Killian’s direction.

He’d taken his helmet off – visor a bit unnecessary when they weren’t _really_ practicing anymore. It was a long-standing game across the roster, judged, as per usual, by a grumbling Arthur who found the whole thing a lot more entertaining than he’d ever actually let on.

The rules were simple – call your shot, take the breakaway pass and get around the defenders to score. If you scored, you got the chance to gloat and...that was about it. If you didn’t score, you got mercilessly mocked until the final person got off the ice and, at the moment, Phillip the Rookie was the latest to face the metaphorical firing squad of the New York Rangers’ front line.

They were two days out from the opener – and the next practice wasn’t much of a practice, mostly just pointed glares from both Ariel and Victor about the _state of this team’s collective muscles_ and Arthur’s not-so-quiet grumbles when they couldn’t recite every single play the Islanders had.

The Islanders hadn’t even made the postseason last year.

Killian wasn’t worried. He’d be back on the ice and Emma’s event was going to go off without a hitch – or maybe some other adjective that didn’t make him sound several decades older than he was – and they’d completely fucked up the ice by running breakaway drills and shouting at each other like they were playing pickup.

Building ops was going to kill them.

“Before we’re dead, Jones,” Arthur said and the rest of the them started tapping their sticks on the ice in a simultaneous move that would have been impressive if it wasn’t also the most obnoxious thing he’d ever seen.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Killian yelled, dropping the puck back on the ice. “Alright, five’er and, uh, if I make then Phillip the Rookie’s got to buy coffee before film tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
“That’s pretty lame,” Will said.   
  
“Come up with a better idea then.”   
  
“You make it five-hole and Phillip the Rookie has to buy coffee _and_ donuts for film tomorrow afternoon. Requirements, however, dictate that both of them need to be freshly made.”   
  
“The donuts too?” Phillip asked, leaning on his stick as if he couldn’t quite support his own weight anymore, eyes darting across the ice. No one said anything. “It’s going to be the middle of the afternoon.”   
  
“Better hope Cap misses his shot then.”   
  
“I’m not going to miss my shot,” Killian promised, shooting an apologetic glance Phillip’s way.

“We’ll only know if you actually take it,” Arthur muttered. “They’re going to kick us out soon anyway.”  
  
“We’re an NHL team,” Jefferson said, laughter creeping into the edge of his voice as he tapped each side of the goal with his stick. “They can’t just kick us out of our own arena.”   
  
“They can and they will. And we’ve got to get uptown anyway or the combined forces of Ruby and Ariel will kill us.”   
  
“I thought you were going to kill us,” Killian said.

“Shoot the goddamn puck, Jones.”  
  
He saluted and he could see Arthur’s overly dramatic eyeroll even from several feet away. “Here,” Killian said, sliding the puck towards Robin’s outstretched stick. He grabbed it, tugging it towards him and skating towards center ice as Killian shouted instructions at his back. “Wait until I’m at the blue line.”   
  
“I’ve passed you the puck before,” Robin yelled, not even bothering to turn around. “I know what I’m doing.”

Killian shifted on his skates again, digging his toe into the ice and they’d have to zamboni the whole rink twice to make up for the all the grooves they’d put into the surface over the last few hours. He was vaguely aware of movement on the bench when Arthur's whistle went off, but he didn’t actually see her until he was at center ice, puck on his stick and Will closing in and he needed to spin out of the way.

He almost lost his edge, half a moment away from from collapsing at center ice as soon as he caught a glimpse of blonde hair and another flower-patterned dress and she was absolutely smiling.

He didn’t fall – which was probably for the best because Will would _never_ have let him live that down – but Killian had lost half a step when he blinked, trying to refocus his energy on that tiny bit of space in between Jefferson’s legs when he crouched in front of the net.

There was barely anything on his shot and he groaned as soon as he pulled his hands back, already certain he wasn’t going to score.

He didn’t.

It was probably the easiest save Jefferson had made in his entire life.

“What the hell was that, Cap?” Jefferson asked, tugging his mask off and staring at Killian like _he_ was the rookie.

He kind of felt like one.

And he could feel Robin and Will staring at him, eyes practically boring into the back of his head like they were looking for an answer to Jefferson’s question.

That wasn’t going to help with under the radar.

“Lost my edge,” Killian mumbled, skating towards a still-red Phillip the Rookie and clapping him on the shoulder. “Lucked out, Rook, I guess I’m buying the coffee and the donuts tomorrow. You’re officially off the hook.”  
  
Phillip seemed to breathe for the first time since they’d gotten on the ice hours ago and he nodded numbly, staring at Killian with a very specific type of look on his face. He wished he’d stop doing that – staring at Killian like some sort of hockey hero or something absurd.

“Thanks Cap,” Phillip said softly, eyes falling back down to his skates. He thought Killian had done it on purpose.

That was probably for the best. That, almost, made sense.

And if it got Phillip the Rookie to relax, at least a little bit, then it was absolutely worth it because the kid could skate, but he hadn’t quite gotten over the whole idea of _playing with his idols_ thing yet.

They should probably stop calling him Phillip the Rookie.

“This ice is garbage anyway,” Robin added, tapping his stick against the back of Killian’s heels. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill yourself falling into that one particularly impressive chasm in front of the goal.”

Killian nodded slowly, shooting Robin a look that he, at least hoped, looked thankful. “Well, whatever,” Jefferson said, leaving the water bottle behind him when he skated towards the bench. “As long as we get some form of food for film tomorrow. And you don’t suck that much on Friday.”  
  
“A fantastic pep talk,” Killian mumbled and Jefferson somehow managed to shrug through the mountain of pads he was wearing.

“If you are all done making me question staging a walk-through tomorrow and not actually making you run shooting drills like you’re nine, then you should probably get off the ice,” Arthur called, nodding towards the wide-open door in the boards.

Emma was still on the bench – sitting next to Arthur with her phone in one hand and a notebook in the other and there was a pen stuck just above her ear, jutting into her hair. And he was absolutely staring, smile inching across his face before he could actually consider any of the reasons he shouldn’t be doing either.

Under the radar was going just as well as not wanting to kiss her and caring about three weeks. It didn’t matter. It was five weeks now anyway.

“Hey Emma,” Will said, not even bothering to slow down when he collided with the boards. She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch as she shook her hair off her shoulders, making sure to pull the pen away before it landed on the ground.

Killian was still staring.

“Hey,” Emma asked cautiously. She handed Arthur the notebook or it might have actually been another stack of papers, the coach’s fingers flipping through them quickly as Will leaned over the boards.

“What’s that?” He nodded towards the papers in Arthur’s hands and Emma’s eyes got even more narrow, barely any green, and Killian could feel Robin eyes on him, moving from teammate to teammate.

“None of your business,” Arthur muttered, not even looking up.

Will made a disappointed noise in the back of his throat, shrugging slightly and he wasn’t even remotely deterred, pressing through whatever awkwardness he’d single-handedly created. The doors at the far end of the ice opened and there were zambonis and building ops and they were supposed to be uptown in an hour and a half.

The list of people set to kill this entire team seemed to be growing by the minute.

“You going later?” Will continued, nodding towards Emma. “We’re all going to go. All of us. Whole team. You know you’re supposed to wear team merch again. Any idea whose number you might pick?”

Killian barely suppressed his groan, skating towards Will’s side and shooting him a glare that didn’t do much to slow down whatever metaphorical train they’d apparently gotten on in the last few minutes.

“I work for this team, don’t I?” she asked and Killian’s smile was a grin now, bordering dangerously close to taking up most of his face. Will stuttered at that, not entirely ready for his sarcasm to be met with sarcasm.

“Rumor has it.”  
  
“Then, yeah, I’m going. And Ruby’ll kill me if I don’t.” She glanced over Will’s shoulder, gaze meeting Killian’s and she absolutely knew he’d missed because of her, several internal organs constricting as soon as her eyes landed on him. “And,” Emma added. “I heard a very interesting rumor about you too. One that might make tonight rather interesting for you.”

Will shifted his shoulders and Arthur, finally, glanced up up from the pile of papers resting on his knee, something tugging on the side of his mouth. Killian bit his tongue. “What?” Will asked, glancing over his shoulder at Killian like he had an answer to the question.

Emma sat up a little straighter, shifting forward on the bench and she rested her chin in her hands, propping her elbows on her knees. “I heard, from a reliable source, that you still haven’t been able to define your relationship yet. And, for what it’s worth, in the great, big rumor mill of this team, I heard the puck is, decidedly, in your zone. So maybe you should be less worried about whose number _I’m_ going to wear and ask your _whatever_ to be your girlfriend and wear your jersey to the restaurant and the opener.”   
  
Killian nearly fell over again.

Robin was hysterical, head thrown back towards the giant screen hanging over center ice and even Phillip the Rookie started laughing, trying to hide the noise behind his hand. It didn’t really work.

Emma’s smile got wider, eyes flashing towards Killian and he ran his hand through his hair, pressing his skates into the ice until he was certain he’d created another divot.

Will’s mouth was hanging open, shoulders moving quickly and he didn’t come up with a response quickly enough because Emma was standing up already, hand held out towards Arthur. He put the stack of papers back in her hands, muttering something that sounded like _it better not rain_ and Emma clicked her tongue, nodding towards Will with a smile on her face.

He knew that smile.

She’d won.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Will shouted, trying to get over the boards and failing miserably, skate almost sticking in the wood. Arthur grabbed his shoulder, pulling him over the bench as Will continued to sputter to a still-victorious Emma. “Who told you that?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Must have just picked it up somewhere.”   
  
“You said reliable source!”   
  
“Well, then I guess you’ll just never know will you? Remember how I made that vaguely horrible hockey pun?” Will made a noise in his throat that might have been a groan or a sigh or maybe just a general sense of discontent and Robin was still laughing.

“The hockey pun might have been horrible, but it’s also true,” Emma continued, shifting the stack of papers from her hands until they were resting on her hip. “So stop asking about my jersey choices. Got it?”  
  
Will grumbled again and even Arthur looked impressed, lips pursed as he glanced between his defenseman and Emma.

The zamboni was actually on the ice now.

“Alright,” Arthur said sharply. “Off the ice. Like minutes ago. Med will lose its collective shit if one of you gets run over by a zamboni.”  
  
“Such a good coach,” Killian laughed, skating by Will and taking a step over the boards. “So concerned about our safety.”   
  
“And the status of the zambonis,” Robin added. Arthur blew his whistle in his ear.

“Eight o’clock,” Arthur said. “At the restaurant. Team-branded because Ruby continues to make ridiculous rules. Do not even think about drinking before during or after dinner. You leave the restaurant at eleven. You go home and you sleep.”  
  
“You’ll see us all in an hour, Arthur,” Killian muttered, leaning up against the hallway wall, balancing precariously on one skate. Emma moved in front of him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she moved and if he didn’t fall over it was, absolutely, some kind of miracle. “You don’t need to dole out all of these instructions now.”   
  
“I am doling out instructions because you’re all children and if I didn’t, Scarlet would probably show up at the restaurant in that ridiculous onesie they sell for $125 at the store in Chase Square.”   
  
“Hey,” Will shouted. “Come on, at least give me some credit. I’m going to wear a t-shirt.”   
  
“And jeans?”   
  
“Arthur!”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to get a girlfriend by the end of the night, you should probably wear a pair of jeans. And maybe get better at pulling the puck out of the corner with a guy on your back. No one wants a boyfriend who can’t get the puck out of the corner.”  
  
And it must have been a miracle because Killian hadn’t fallen over and Will was speechless for the second time in as many minutes.

Maybe this season would be ok.

Will stalked back to the locker room, followed closely by Robin who kept muttering something that sounded like it was trying to be supportive and Arthur nodded in Killian’s direction, smile still tugging on the ends of his mouth.

“Eight, Jones,” he said again. “Make sure Scarlet wears something almost acceptable, ok?”  
  
“Sure, Arthur.”

“Good.”  
  
It sounded like more than the word, like some sort of _knowing_ something and that didn’t make any sense at all because they were decidedly under the radar – except of course when he was tripping over the blue line and smiling like a complete lovestruck idiot because Emma had taken down Will in the middle of the arena.

Huh.

He didn’t let his mind linger too long on the word, didn’t consider it for the ten steps it took him to get down the hallway to find Emma standing just outside the door to the film room, arms crossed lightly over her chest with a smile on her face and he didn’t think about it when his pulse started thudding in his ears.

And possibly behind his eyes.

And he was still smiling at her.

“You didn’t miss on purpose did you?” she asked, glancing up at him and that was hardly even fair.

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, coming up just a few inches in front of her and Emma didn’t blink, just stared at him expectantly. “You look like you already know the answer to that question, Swan.”  
  
“Ah, but it’s so much more fun to hear it out loud.”   
  
So, they hadn’t gone on a date or done much more than a vaguely overwhelming amount of wholly unprofessional making out in that one chair in her office, but they were getting very good at this whole flirting, banter thing and she hadn’t really stopped smiling in the last two weeks either.

It wasn’t pushing.

It wasn’t the definition she’d claimed Belle deserved but it was...something.

Comfortable.

And she knew she’d made him miss.

“I wasn’t expecting you to just show up on the bench,” Killian said softly, taking a step towards her with the sole intent of touching that incredibly flowery dress. Emma eyed him meaningfully, making a noise in the back of her throat. “What?”  
  
“We are in the middle of the hallway, Jones.”

“And?”  
  
“And we’re not exactly trying to broadcast this. Something you need to get better at by the way because you can’t just keep missing wide-open breakaways like that. They’ll stage some sort of captain mutiny.”

“That’s not how that works, love.”  
  
“Even so.”   
  
“Even so, unless you’re suggesting you’re just going to show up on the bench on Friday night, I think that the status of my breakaway ability is safe.”   
  
Emma scoffed. “I think, Jones, you just promised me a breakaway goal.”   
  
He blinked once and opened his mouth, certain some sort of witty remark and equally sarcastic banter was just on the tip of his tongue – it wasn’t. It disappeared at the look on her face and her slightly nervous smile and Emma Swan was flirting with him and that was a much bigger deal than the status of his breakaway ability.

And, five weeks into this _whatever,_ he’d lost all control of the situation and started thinking and considering very specific words that had no place in a relationship with secrets and enough nervous energy to power the entire east coast.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian said and he didn’t care about the hallway or whoever was walking behind him, just tugged on the side of her dress until his fingers had wrapped around her waist and they were both pushed into the tiny space in front of the film room door.

“You really didn’t miss on purpose? Save Phillip the Rookie from having to buy donuts?”  
  
“And coffee.”   
  
“That too.”   
  
Killian shook his head. “I was more than willing to let Phillip the Rookie provide us with several dozen donuts. It was just bad ice.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“That’s what I told Jefferson. Why would I lie about that?”   
  
“No idea.”

He lifted his eyebrows and she hadn’t actually moved his hand away from her waist, just shifted a bit underneath his fingers, trying to roll her shoulders against the door and ducked her head when footsteps sounded behind Killian.

“Why did you come down here?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him and he needed to get out of this practice gear.

“Not happy to see me?”  
  
“That’s not even remotely what I said.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, finger looping through the laces on his jersey. “I had to talk to Arthur about opening night and some sort of pep talk, rally call that he does every season and you guys ran late doing whatever it was you were doing, flexing some sort of competitive muscle or whatever.”

“Breakaways,” Killian mumbled, leaning a bit closer to her and he’d rationalized it easily – something about making sure no one saw or gossiped and it absolutely didn’t have anything to do with how much he just want to kiss her. “We were practicing breakaways.”  
  
“You’re going to be late for Ruby’s pre-opener extravaganza. Do you guys really do this every year?”   
  
Killian nodded, humming in the back of his throat and this team was far too obsessed with tradition and friendship and interfering. There were too many rules. “We could blow it off,” he said quickly, not even bothering to think about what he was actually suggesting.

“What?”  
  
“We don’t have to go.”   
  
“We have to go.”   
  
“Who says?”   
  
“Ruby literally told me she would kill me if I didn’t go. She actually said those words to my face. One human being to another. And what would happen if we didn’t go?”

Killian made a face and Emma rolled her eyes. “Probably get a few moments actually by ourselves because this team is a cesspool of ridiculous.”

“Cesspool of ridiculous?”  
  
“Exactly that.”

“We have to go,” Emma sighed, tugging on laces again and he was _absolutely_ moving so she wouldn’t choke him and not so he could duck his head and kiss her.

Absolutely.

She made a noise when his lips caught hers and _that_ was going to do dangerous things to his ego two days before the season opener and, well, he had promised a breakaway goal. “Under the radar,” Emma mumbled, but it was only half an argument and her hand moved away from his laces and into his hair, tugging tightly until _he_ made a noise.

“If we’re going to go to this stupid thing, I need to get out of this gear,” Killian said, voice laced with innuendo and he didn’t even bother to pull away from her mouth. Emma rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically and tapping the toe of her shoe against the side of his skate. “Hey, did I mention you were pretty fantastic before?”  
  
“When? During the making out in shadows?”   
  
“Under the radar,” Killian mumbled, earning a soft laugh out of Emma and she still hadn’t moved her hand out of his hair. “And, while I am consistently impressed at your ability to excel at kissing, Swan, that’s not exactly what I was talking about.”   
  
“What else was there?”   
  
He took a moment to be slightly impressed at that and Emma was still staring at him expectantly. “Telling Scarlet off,” Killian said. “He’s been asking for it for weeks and you were...something else, Swan.”   
  
She was fantastic and sarcastic and, very clearly, as much a part of this team as any of them at this point – even if she still didn’t seem to realize it completely. That was a work in progress, a goal as much as the breakaway he’d inadvertently promised.

“Charmer.”  
  
“Gentleman. That was a compliment, by the way.”   
  
“Yeah, I picked up on that,” she said, hand flat against his chest and the ‘C’ just underneath his shoulder. “Do you have to wear team-branded later too?”  
  
Killian arched one eyebrow and Emma made a face, lips twisted in the same frustration he was certain he felt whenever he was forced into one of these team-wide events with rules and curfews and a distinct lack of alcohol and he wouldn’t even be able to kiss her in front of anyone there.

They should definitely blow it off.

They absolutely couldn’t.

“That seems like cheating,” Emma accused. “You can just wear your own jersey.”  
  
“And have Kristoff want to kill me as soon as I show up in the restaurant?”   
  
“There’s a lot of bloodlust on this team, isn’t there? Everyone’s always facing some sort of certain death if they don’t do something.”

“Ah, well, hockey’s a violent sport.”  
  
“What are you going to wear?”   
  
Killian shook his head slowly. “You’ll just have to wait and see, love.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You’re the one who wanted to go.”   
  
“I never said that! I said we had to go and not going would be some sort of flashing neon sign about…” She waved her hand in the distinct lack of space between them and Killian nodded in agreement.

“What are you going to wear? Practice jerseys?”  
  
“Speaking of flashing neon signs.”   
  
“It’s just a suggestion, love,” he said, moving his eyebrows quickly and _maybe_ that was starting to work now because Emma actually laughed. “You can’t wear the t-shirt again. As disappointing as that is.”   
  
She smiled again, the look of it shooting straight to his core and he was rocking back and forth on the edges of his skates. He was still wearing skates. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”   
  
“Ah, that’s not even fair, Swan.”   
  
“Them’s the breaks. Or whatever.”   
  
Killian laughed, lips landing on her forehead quickly and instinctively and he squeezed her hip tightly before taking a step back into the hallway. He needed to get into the locker room and uptown and figure out a way to not brush his fingers across Emma’s hand or over her back the second she walked into the restaurant in an hour.

Less than an hour now.

“Go,” Emma said, tapping on his jersey. “I’ll see you uptown.”

And she moved before he did, ducking around his arm and shooting him a smile before she walked back down the hallway.

* * *

“What the hell is that?”

Killian leaned back against the door as he did his best not to slam it shut behind him and grinned at Regina, something resembling hysterics threatening to overtake him just a few feet into the restaurant.

“It’s a shirt, Gina. Sweater. If you want to get technical.”  
  
“It says Christmas on it. It’s October.”  
  
“Semantics.”

Regina rolled her eyes, but there was something in her gaze and she was, very clearly, trying not to laugh as well. Will, however, wasn’t even trying – laughter practically attacking Killian from the other side of the restaurant as he pushed through the ridiculously large crowd packed into the room.

“Where did you even get that?” Will asked, Belle just a few feet behind him, sporting his jersey and her own smile.

“They sold them on some fan site last Christmas and Banana bought it for me. She thought it was hysterical.”  
  
Strictly speaking it was hysterical – Killian hadn’t admitted it last Christmas, making a face at Anna when she actually fell back against the carpet in the Vankald’s living room, her entire body shaking with laughter, but he could admit it there in that ridiculously overcrowded restaurant and he’d mostly done it for the look on Regina’s face.

The shirt was a distraction.

And it was working.

“It’s the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen in my life,” Regina muttered, taking a step towards him and tugging on the end of it. She was smiling.

It was the ugliest sweater in the world – all blue and white lettering and there were actual candy canes stitched on and Killian had never actually worn it before, but he was being forced into this stupid, yearly tradition so he was going to wear the ugliest sweater he could find, even if it said _All I want for Christmas is Locksley_ on it.

“How much did it cost?” Will continued, laughing as Roland slammed into his side.

Killian shrugged, reaching down instinctively to grab the six-year-old around the waist and, eventually, someone was going to have to teach this kid how to walk. The problem with being raised by an entire hockey team, however, was no one was particularly concerned with walking when there was skating to teach and stick-handling instructions and Roland was better on ice than he was in sneakers.

“You’d have to ask Banana,” Killian said, eyes darting around the restaurant as he tried to make sure he didn’t actually drop Roland. “You’ve got to stop kicking me, mate,” he muttered, shifting Roland on his shoulder. “Where’s your dad?”  
  
“Getting onion rings,” Roland said, voice mumbled with his face pressed against the sweater. “With Emma.”   
  
He was actually fairly proud at his ability to keep his face even, not even lifting his eyebrows or reacting any more than a quiet hum in the back of his throat. “What do you say we go get some onion rings and show off my very fashion-forward sweater to your dad, huh?”   
  
“Onion rings?”   
  
“Onion rings.”   
  
Killian hitched Roland up again, balancing him on his shoulder and Regina rolled her eyes – or maybe widened them and her mouth was half open with warning, the quiet _be careful_ halfway out before he just grinned at her and turned around, letting the six-year-old work his charms without even having to say anything himself.

“You want to come, Gina?” Roland asked.

Regina must have nodded because Roland kicked again and Killian let out a soft grunt when a well placed shoe collided with his ribs. And Ariel must have had some sort of sixth sense because he heard the gasp before he even saw her or the flash of red hair in front of him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Are you for real, Killian?” Ariel gasped, hand falling on Roland’s back immediately. “They, literally, just cleared you.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to start yelling about the state of my medical well-being until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, Red,” Killian argued. Will ducked his head towards the ground – so Ariel wouldn’t see him laughing, the stupid traitor – and Ariel sighed as dramatically as she could, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Give me my kid,” Regina said, tugging on the sleeve of Roland’s t-shirt and Killian hadn’t noticed he was wearing his number. He shifted his shoulder again, nudging Roland up until he had his hands wrapped around his waist again and feet back on the ground.

It was an 85th anniversary jersey – the one they’d given him two years ago and the jersey had been _enormous_ then, far too big for a four-year old to wear without tripping over and wasn’t much better now. Especially for the sleeves. The sleeves were still too big, fabric draping over the back of his palms and threatening to overtake his hands completely.

“Nice jersey, Rol,” Killian said, hand ruffling hair and Regina groaned at the movement. Roland grinned and laughed and maybe this whole, stupid tradition wouldn’t actually be that bad.

And maybe he should work on figuring out what the hell he wanted.

“How are you feeling though?” Ariel pressed, hardly aware of whatever mental battle Killian was staging in the middle of her husband’s restaurant. “Honestly.”  
  
“Fine,” he answered quickly. It was almost true. His collarbone was still tinged a bit purple, but it had been _green_ before, so they seemed to be moving in some sort of positive direction as far as whatever collar his skin should be. And it hurt to shoot – but it always kind of hurt to shoot, so Killian just shrugged and Ariel didn’t argue anymore.

“Hook,” Roland said, tugging on the side of his sweater. “Can we go get onion rings, now?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course, mate. You coming, Gina?”   
  
Regina nodded and they pushed through the same crowd Ariel had just worked her way through a few moments before, moving back towards the corner of the bar and the seat Killian hadn’t actually been in in nearly two weeks – far too preoccupied with a different seat several dozen blocks downtown.

Robin had four plates in his hand, balancing onion rings with actual fries and sliders and he groaned as soon as he saw Killian. “What is that?” he asked, nodding towards the sweater. “Did Anna buy that?”  
  
“We clearly spend far too much time together,” Killian said, grabbing Roland and moving him onto one of the chairs in front of the bar, far too aware of Emma’s eyes. He didn’t look immediately, something about _under the radar_ and keeping his face even and both of those things would have been decidedly impossible if he looked up and saw her wearing his number as well.

Again – wearing his number again.

Robin laughed, sliding the plate of onion rings towards Roland without even having to be asked. “Yeah, well, it’s an FA season, maybe they’ll deal you somewhere else and we can get some breathing room and I won’t know your sister bought the ugliest sweater in the world just to make fun of me.”  
  
It was supposed to be a joke.

Robin was laughing, shoulder shaking with the effort of it and even Ruby chuckled, as if the idea of Killian anywhere except New York or in a jersey that wasn’t decidedly bright blue, was a laughable offense.

They didn’t see Killian’s eyes dart towards Regina or how she lifted one eyebrow perfectly in response, mouth set in a thin line that practically screamed every single opinion she had on the subject about his potential trade of free agent status.

Emma noticed.

He could see it – gaze finally landing on her and she _was_ wearing his number, an actual jersey this time, that fit about as well as Roland’s, fabric hanging off her shoulders and halfway down her thighs and his whole body tensed at the sight.

She stared straight back at him, eyes going slightly narrow when he didn’t laugh right away, and Killian shook his head quickly, like he was trying to wake himself up. “Idiot,” Regina mumbled, quiet enough that only he could hear as she reached around Roland to grab an onion ring.

“Hey,” Eric said, oblivious to everything that was going on in the corner of his bar. “Long time no see, A’s been worried you’re not eating.”  
  
Killian groaned, hooking his foot around one of the chairs and he did his best not to actually look at Emma when he answered. It didn’t matter. She was talking to Ruby, fingers tugging on the untied laces of her jersey – and he needed to figure out _where_ she got a jersey because it didn’t actually look like the ones they sold in the stores. Those ones were just a bit too blue and a bit too stiff and this one looked a little worse for wear, the ends of the laces not perfectly formed anymore and the ‘C’ on her shoulder was just a bit dingier than usual.

It looked like it had been run up against the glass.

“Killian,” Eric continued and he shook his head again, making a noise in the back of his throat as if that proved he was still there and some sort of active participant in the conversation. Robin pushed the plate of sliders towards him. “You are eating, right? Because I’m not joking, A’s been legitimately worried.”  
  
“I am eating,” Killian promised, grabbing one of the sliders like that proved his point.   
  
“Should I be offended that it’s not here?”   
  
“No.”   
  
Eric made a face, but didn’t push the issue anymore and there was a sound from the front of a restaurant, chairs scraping on the ground as Arthur climbed onto one and tapped the side of the glass in his hand with the edge of a knife.

They did this every year.

Or, rather, they’d done this every year since Ruby had shown up and Ariel had started dating Eric and then Arthur had shown up and started making motivational speeches at this yearly event like they were some sort of army going off to battle for on-ice glory.

They kind of were.

Hockey was, at its very core, a very dramatic sport and there wasn’t a more dramatic team than the New York Rangers – all of them far too invested in winning and competition and none of them could seem to butt out of each other’s lives.

Emma still hadn’t moved away from Ruby, smile on her face not quite as strained as Killian’s had been, and he was absolutely staring again.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur shouted and the crowd didn’t really get any quieter as he tapped the side of his glass again. He groaned, rolling his neck as he handed the glass to his wife – Gwen wearing her own personalized jersey with ‘17’ emblazoned on the back – and reached into his pocket to grab something.

The whistle.

He blew the whistle and the roster snapped to attention, something vaguely Pavlovian about the whole thing, and Killian heard Emma laugh quietly just a few feet away from him. “God, Arthur,” Will yelled. “Do you just carry that thing everywhere?”

Arthur didn’t answer, just glared at Will and no one said anything else or questioned the whereabouts of the whistle. “Alright,” he repeated sharply. “Now we’re two days out from the opener and we all know how last year went.” There were a few jeers from the crowd, but they were silenced as quickly as Arthur could shoot them another glare. “This year is going to be different. We’ve got more talent than anyone in the entire fucking league and the best rookie prospect on the entire goddamn continent.”  
  
Regina had her hands over both of Roland’s ears and it didn’t really matter, but he wasn’t really listening either – far too focused on eating an entire plate of onion rings on his own.

“Arthur, there are kids here,” Killian shouted, falling into overprotective so quickly it nearly made his head spin.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but then he saw the look on Regina’s face and muttered a quick apology, scuffing his foot against the top of the chair he was still standing on. “Anyway,” he said, doing his best to keep the attention of his team and front office staff and the one kid in the crowd. “We’re going to do something good here this season. I know it. As long as we don’t screw it all up to start on Friday.”  
  
He stopped talking and the crowd waited for more, waited for the _encouraging_ part of the pep talk and it never came – Will actually started to boo.

“That was the worst speech I’ve ever heard,” Emma muttered, stepping into his space easily, like she wasn’t wearing his jersey or smiling at him and Killian hummed in response. He couldn’t come up with another word.

“He’ll be better at opening night,” Robin promised. “He doesn’t have to try as hard with the fans. He’s always been kind of shitty at that sort of thing when it’s just the team.”

Regina groaned and Robin sighed when he realized what he’d said – Roland still completely oblivious to anything that wasn’t his now empty plate of onion rings. “Jeez, mate,” Killian said, pushing the plate towards a clearly amused Eric. “Maybe you’re the one we should be worried about not eating.”  
  
“Rude, Jones,” Regina hissed, nodding at Eric when he held up a bottle of wine.

“You know it’s supposed to rain on Friday,” Will said, pushing his way into the conversation with ease and Killian was almost impressed at how quickly he’d worked his way across the restaurant.

“We’re ready for that,” Emma promised, glancing towards Killian. They were. He’d watched her order the tents two days before, demanding blue and white and workers on 34th Street on Friday afternoon even if it actually didn’t rain. “We could probably withstand an actual hurricane if it happened at this point.”  
  
“I doubt it’ll hurricane,” Will said reasonably.

“You know you’ve got to wear a suit,” Robin mumbled, eyeing Will meaningfully.

“What?”  
  
“How could you not know that?” Emma asked. “That’s, like, a league-mandated thing. You’d have to wear one even if there wasn’t an event before.”   
  
“I just figured I could wear whatever for the event.”   
  
Emma shook her head. “Suit.”   
  
“That’s stupid.”   
  
“A solid argument on your part. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still going to have to wear a suit. And probably sign a ridiculous amount of autographs.”   
  
“Nah,” Will argued. “That’ll be Cap. He’s everyone’s favorite, after all.” Will nodded towards Emma’s jersey and she rolled her eyes – a picture of indifference in the middle of the restaurant and maybe they were getting better at this.

He didn’t even try to brush her hair off her shoulders.

“Is Hook your favorite, Emma?” Roland asked and every adult in a five-foot radius froze immediately. “On the team, I mean.”  
  
Emma blinked twice and took a deep breath before she answered, smile on her face and hair moving just a bit when she shook her head. “Nah,” she said quickly. “You know he missed a wide-open breakaway in practice today?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Barely even got his shot off.”   
  
Roland’s mouth hung open – as if he’d just heard Killian had missed the game-winner in a Game Seven – and spun on his chair, nearly careening off the side of it before Regina reached out to keep him steady. “Hook,” he shouted. “You never miss those!”   
  
“Blame your dad, mate,” Killian said. “It was a terrible set-up.”   
  
“Ah, now you’re just making excuses,” Emma muttered, one side of her mouth tugged up into a smile and this was good. This was distracting. If they kept them distracted, kept the entire stupid roster thinking they were just _friends_ and following some sort of stringent blue line of rules and regulations, they’d leave them all alone.

Maybe this could almost be easy.

Killian scoffed, keeping his hands pressed against his side so he didn’t inadvertently run his hands through his hair. Emma clicked her tongue and made a face, laughing softly again and if that didn’t shoot straight from his ears to his feet and settle somewhere in the very middle of his being, it would have been the biggest lie he ever told.

“You know, Jones,” Emma continued, “I think you’re a bit too confident for your own good. Better make sure Kristoff keeps your skates sharp on Friday so you don’t lose your edge again.” He tilted his head, eyes widening just a bit and Emma’s smile got even bigger. She glanced towards Will again, eyebrows lifted and face set with determination. “A suit on Friday,” she said again. “Or I’m not letting you in.”  
  
Killian laughed before he could stop himself and Will stuttered a bit when Belle appeared on his side, hand falling on the front of his jersey. He’d worn his own jersey. “I don’t think we’ve had a chance to meet,” Belle said, throwing her hand out towards Emma. “At least not officially. We were too busy trying to set you up with Killian before. I’m Belle.”   
  
“It wasn’t a set-up,” Robin argued, but it didn’t sound very genuine.

“It absolutely was. I’m sure Emma knew as well as Killian did.”  
  
“I did,” Emma confirmed. “Your intentions were in the right place, just don’t do it again, ok?”

Regina hadn’t stopped staring at Killian in _hours,_ he was convinced, and Will sighed dramatically. “For real?” he asked, head snapping back and forth between Emma and Killian. “I thought…”  
  
“Nope,” Emma said, popping her lips on the final letter. Will glanced at Killian, disappointment on his face and good, this was _good_ – this was absolutely part of the plan. Under the radar. And a bit of harmless lying.

It wasn’t like he wanted to kiss her everywhere or shout something vaguely romantic from the roof of the Garden and his mind drifted back to words and ideas he shouldn’t even be considering – especially not around teammates or an agent who knew he wanted to go to Colorado at the end of the season.

“Nope,” Killian repeated and even Robin looked a bit surprised.

“Whatever,” Will mumbled bitterly, drawing a laugh out of Belle as he shot Killian a very specific type of glare. “When we calling the leader?”

“Who’s the leader?” Emma asked, taking a step closer to the bar. Killian bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from reaching out for her hand. “Sounds a bit extraterrestrial.”

“Liam,” Regina explained, mumbling to Roland about _one onion ring at a time._ “They all call Liam ‘leader.’”  
  
“Fearless,” Will added. “The fearless leader.”   
  
“Wait, wait,” Emma said quickly. “You guys all still talk to Liam?”

Will and Robin stared at her like she’d just asked them how to break into the White House or chart a course to the moon and Killian rolled his eyes. She really never had been on a team like this. “Of course,” Robin said slowly. “Why wouldn’t we?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Just...an overwhelming amount of team.”   
  
“Ah, well, welcome to New York or something,” Will said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and propping it up against an empty glass on the counter. “He said something about six o’clock his time and the twins’ll be occupied. Cap, you better figure out a way to get Anna too because I don’t want to hear about it for the next three weeks if she’s not around for the ritual.”   
  
“Ritual?” Emma repeated, voice cracking just a bit over the word. “What exactly are you going to do in the middle of this restaurant?”  
  
“Ritual’s a very strong word, Swan,” Killian muttered. He grabbed his phone though and Anna would absolutely text each of them every day for the next three weeks if they didn’t call her too.

“It’s super fun, Emma,” Roland said excitedly, bobbing up and down a bit on his seat for good measure. “There’s a puck and a whole speech and Uncle Liam makes them all put their hands on their hearts.”

Emma gaped at them, mouth hanging open and shoulders moving just a bit quicker than normal. “It’s because they all came to New York together,” Regina said and Killian was fairly certain he didn’t miss the edge in her voice, the way the words seemed to cut across his chest like she was reminding him of everything he was, maybe, walking away from. “A whole group of vaguely terrified professional hockey players who started this stupid thing to make themselves feel as if they had a little bit of control.”  
  
“Hey,” Killian said quickly, tapping on his phone screen and hitting Anna’s number. “It’s not stupid. And we started this way before we got to New York, Scarlet and Locksley are just tag-alongs on this.”   
  
Will’s phone lit up, Liam’s face taking up most of the screen and he was already smiling, the sound of the twins in the background making their way across the country and into that tiny corner of Eric’s restaurant. “Is it time?” Liam asked.

“Obviously,” Will sighed. “You ready?”  
  
“Well, you’re five minutes late, so, yeah, I’ve been ready for five minutes.”   
  
“Find a hobby.”

“And miss the ritual? Come on, where’s the puck?”

“I’ve got it,” Robin said immediately, dropping on the counter of the bar and Liam shifted a bit in the frame, making room for Elsa when she sidled next to him.

“Is Anna here yet?” Elsa asked without preamble, eyes falling on Killian like there was a magnet on his forehead. “She’s going to be pissed if we do this without her.”  
  
Killian grabbed his phone and Anna screeched when she saw Elsa on the other screen, somehow sounding as loud as if she were standing next to him instead of God-knows-where Alaska. They started talking and Elsa was asking Anna about photo shoots and Anna was asking Elsa about that bill she was trying to pass and Will grumbled loudly, pulling the phone out of Killian’s hand and earning a collective _hey_ out of each one of his sisters.

“Alright,” he said intently, waving his hands like that somehow made him some sort of authority. “If you guys want to talk, you’ve got to do it on your time, we’ve got to do the ritual.”

“Jeez, Scarlet,” Anna muttered. “Relax.”  
  
“This is serious.”   
  
“And it’ll get done,” Liam promised. “Hey Gina, hey Ruby.”   
  
They both waved in response and Killian could see the look on Elsa’s face as obvious as if she’d just been hit with some sort of meteorite. It didn’t help that Anna gasped as well. She didn’t say anything – and Killian would probably have to write a ten-page manuscript to thank her for that – but her eyes were wide when they landed on Emma and the jersey she had on. Anna was laughing.

“Can we do this?” Killian asked impatiently. “We’re going to miss curfew if we drag this out any longer and I don’t know how well my data plan can hold up to get Banana in from wherever she is right now.”  
  
“Still Alaska, KJ, at least pretend you listen when I tell you things,” Anna said.

Killian opened his mouth to argue back and Emma was still breathing heavily, eyes darting from phone to phone and back to him and they probably should have just told everyone because then, at least, he’d be able to hold her hand. “Are we doing this or not?” Liam said and they all snapped to attention immediately.

“See,” Regina muttered, nodding towards Emma. “The leader.”

Liam nodded once, grabbing the stick thad had been resting just outside of the frame and holding it out in front of him. “Alright,” he started, “eight years ago we all stumbled back into this stupid city and laced up skates and tripped over ourselves on the ice. And we were God awful. Terrible. Embarrassingly bad. But, as with most things, we figured it out. We stopped tripping over that giant emblem at center ice and we didn’t stutter during post and we actually started scoring goals.”

He pointed the stick again and Robin lifted the puck like it was a trophy, hardly touching it, as if leaving fingerprints on it would somehow marr what it stood for. “And we inexplicably won a first-round series and made the backpages of the tabloids and, now, it’s up to you guys to keep the tradition alive, to score more goals and play fodder for terrible pun-influenced headlines and win a goddamn Cup.” Liam nodded once and his gaze fell on Roland, smiling at him from Colorado. “You ready, Rol?”  
  
Roland nodded once, sitting up a little straighter when Robin’s hand landed on his shoulder. “To the Cup,” he shouted.

“To the Cup,” the crowd repeated, voices all a bit jumbled with the addition of videos from Colorado and Alaska. Eric put a tray down in front of them – shot glasses almost filled to the brim and that was another rule broken, just like it was every year.

Liam and Elsa held up their own glasses on their screen and even Anna had found a water bottle to toast and they all downed their drinks in one, quick gulp of tradition and meaning and this year was going to be the _year._

And the restaurant suddenly felt very small and there were too many people in there and they must have been breaking some sort of fire code, because Killian’s head felt like it was spinning.

Liam was smiling and they were all laughing and Robin had put the puck back in his bag underneath the bar – saved from that series-clinching goal their rookie season – but Killian couldn’t quite breathe, the weight of it all landing on his shoulders like an anvil. This would be the year – he was certain of it – and...then what?  
  
He’d still probably feel guilty.

One of the twins shouted something off-screen and both Liam and Elsa moved in tandem, while Anna announced she had to go _climb a mountain_ and the ritual was over as soon as it began, leaving Killian with a fresh wave of guilt and confusion and Emma kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He grabbed his phone as soon as Anna was gone, a quick _see ya_ shouted at the lot of them, and Killian barely even heard Robin’s quiet _what’s wrong_ when he moved out the door of the restaurant and sank onto the sidewalk just around the corner.

It took less than a full second for his phone to buzz in his hand.

**She’s pretty, KJ.**

He sighed – he should have expected it. She hadn’t said anything on video. There was, at least, that.

**She was wearing your jersey too.**

_I was there, El._

**Ooooh testy. Yeah, I figured as much. No one’s downed a vaguely against-the-rules shot quicker in the entire history of the world. Why?  
**   
_Why what?_   
**  
Why are you feeling guilty? You know Liam isn’t mad. He’s as excited about the season as the twins are and they basically sleep in your jersey now.**

Fucking hell. Killian ran his hand through his hair and he probably should have brought a jacket when he ran out of the restaurant because it was October and weather in this city never made sense.

_What happens if we win?_

**I hear you get a parade.**

_I’m serious, El. What happens if we win and he’s not there?_

**Well, he’d probably be there. He was there the last time.**

_That’s not what I meant._

**Be more specific then.**

_What if we win and we get the parade and the trophy and our names on the Cup for the rest of time? How am I supposed to look him in the eye ever again? If this was the other way around I’d never forgive me._

**Ah, well, you’ve always been kind of dramatic. This conversation is proof positive.**

Killian didn’t answer at first, mostly because Elsa was always right and that must have been exhausting for her – so certain of whatever she had to say in moments like this, just a bit more frequent in the last five weeks.

He was a mess.

**She was wearing your jersey, KJ.**

“Killian?” He twisted around to find Emma standing a few feet away from him, arms wrapped around her waist and his jersey and lips twisted into something that almost resembled concern. “You ok?”

“Yeah, of course.”  
  
“You’re the worst liar in the world,” she said, sinking next to him and nudging his arm with her shoulder. “Seriously, what’s going on?”   
  
“Just preseason stuff,” he answered evasively and Emma sighed at the lie. “Ready to get on the ice and all that.”   
  
Emma hummed in agreement, lips pressed together tightly and she was staring at her shoes, playing with the ends of sleeves – his sleeves.  “Are you alright, love?” Killian asked.

“Fine.”  
  
“Look who’s lying now.”   
  
She made a face, rolling her eyes for good measure and he tugged her against his side, brushing his lips over her forehead before remembering they weren’t really all that far from the restaurant. “I think they almost believed us,” Emma muttered. “About the whole under the radar thing.”   
  
“We need to come up with another word for it. That’s kind of a mouthful and we’ve said it so many times it doesn’t even seem like an actual language anymore.”

Emma laughed softly and nodded against his shoulder, cheek brushing up against the ugliest sweater in the history of the entire world. “Yeah, that’s true. I just…”  
  
“What?”   
  
“You were right.”   
  
“That happens more often than not,” Killian said, working another laugh out of Emma. “What about this time?”

“Me lying.”  
  
He was still breathing, which was impressive since Killian was convinced his heart had actually stuttered for half a beat and he leaned back to find Emma staring at him, nerves practically rolling off her in that tiny alleyway. “What’s going on?”   
  
“Remember how I said I didn’t normally do this?” He nodded, thumb tracing against the back of her wrist. “Well, there’s a reason. I did. Before.”   
  
“I still don’t understand, Swan.”   
  
“I dated a guy on a team,” Emma said, rushing over the words so quickly he could barely even make them out.

Killian clenched his jaw tightly so he wouldn’t ask the wrong question or push into uncharted territory and no wonder she’d talked about HR. And then something sounded in the back of his mind and he actually _heard_ what she said. “Wait,” he said quickly, not moving his thumb. “Did you just say we’re dating, Swan?”

She let out a shaky laugh, smile barely visible on her face as she shrugged.  “I mean we’ve done a good amount of making out in my office if that qualifies as dating.”  
  
“I don’t see why not.”   
  
“Well, there you go.”   
  
They didn’t say anything for what felt like hours or days and he’d probably missed the season opener at this point, fully content to sit in this alley with his hand wrapped around Emma’s wrist and that smile on her face. “It wasn’t a player,” she said quietly, taking him by surprise.

“What?”  
  
“The guy...he didn’t actually play for the team.”   
  
“Front office?”   
  
“Was communications. He’s all PR now.”

“Where?”  
  
Emma pursed her lips and for half a second he was nervous he’d _pushed_ or stepped over that blue line that seemed to rule this relationship – and it was definitely a relationship, now, even if they hadn’t used that word specifically, the thought of it making his stomach flip and his pulse thud just a bit harder than usual.

She sighed softly, turning towards him until her knee bumped against his. “He’s in Los Angeles. Probably sitting behind my desk now.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“He took my job,” Emma said, frustration obvious in the set of her shoulders. “And that’s not why we broke up or anything, that happened before I even got to LA, but he was, apparently, in with the new owner and I wasn’t and, well, he’s a jackass.”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
She laughed again, tugging on the end of her hair until he finally gave into that desire that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach as soon as he saw her in the back corner of her restaurant, reaching forward to wrap her fingers up in his and squeezing – tightly.   
  
“I just…” Emma muttered, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “I just can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was looking at her for the first time and, well, maybe he was.

She still looked nervous, the edges of her mouth moving every few seconds, like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to smile, but she was staring right back at him, something on the edge of her gaze that felt a bit like hope.

And there were walls still, something Killian knew she still wasn’t talking about and there had to be a reason she’d never been to New York before or ended up in Minnesota for a year, but he could wait.

He would wait.

“You’re not,” Killian said softly and it sounded like the promise it absolutely was. Five weeks and it didn’t make any sense and he didn’t care.

“This job is important,” Emma continued. “And the last one didn’t end the way I thought it would and I already got enough charity from Ruby and I’m still sleeping on Reese’s couch and I can’t...I can’t deal with people thinking we’re…”  
  
“It’s fine, Swan,” he cut in, ignoring the way his stomach clenched at the uncertainty in her voice. “We’ll come up with another word for under the radar. I think we were rather convincing. The only person who seemed remotely aware of what was going on was El and she’s in Colorado.”   
  
“Is that why you came out here? Because they’re in Colorado and you’re here and still doing questionable pre-season rituals?   
  
“How’d you figure that out?”   
  
Emma shrugged, smile just a bit more cautious than it should have been. “Open book works both ways.”   
  
He moved an instant later, mouth crashing on hers and he appreciated the way she gasped against his lips before moving back towards him, her fingers carding through his hair. She rocked against him, free hand finding its way under the ugliest sweater ever made and her jersey was far too big because it kept getting twisted up in between them, making it all but impossible for him to hit skin the way he wanted to.

He wanted her a questionable amount.

“You know,” Killian mumbled, moving against Emma’s jaw and her fingers tightened in his hair. “This jersey looks awfully familiar.”  
  
“It does have have your name on it,” she said, voice shaking just a bit with the effort of trying to make sure it didn’t shake. He grinned, moving back down her neck and he’d, finally, managed to work his hand underneath the fabric of the jersey, almost gasping when he realized there wasn’t another shirt underneath.

“God, Swan,” he whispered and now he was the one with the shaking voice and slightly shaking fingers and they were still in a goddamn alley.

They never should have come to this stupid thing.

They should go on a real date.

“Your sister might not be the only one who has some sort of idea as to what’s going on,” Emma said and her voice felt like a live wire against him or in him or _whatever._ He’d only gone to college for a year.

“Why is that?”  
  
“Because it took me no less than forty-five minutes to convince Kristoff that giving me an actual jersey was some sort of good idea.”   
  
He knew it. “This is a real jersey?” Killian asked, leaning back slightly. Emma’s fingers trailed across the back of his neck and her other hand had found a belt loop, tugging tightly until he moved forward and she kissed him again.

That was as much of an answer as he was going to get – it was the only answer he really needed.

The door of the restaurant slammed open around the corner and Killian could hear Arthur’s voice and Gwen’s heels and they snapped apart as quickly as if there _was_ a live wire in between them. “We should probably go back inside,” Emma said and he didn’t even try to mask his groan at the suggestion. “Under the radar or whatever we’re going to call it from now on.”   
  
“If you wanted under the radar, love, you probably shouldn’t have worn my jersey. It makes it very hard to think clearly.”   
  
She moved her eyebrows quickly and she was smirking at _him_ now, standing up and readjusting the jersey so it almost settled on her shoulders. “Maybe that was the point,” Emma said, widening her eyes meaningfully before turning back towards the restaurant and leaving Killian open-mouthed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok well this was just...absurdly long. I just had no idea where to cut it, so this was just 11K of hockey and traditions and we're almost ready for the season!
> 
> As always, I cannot thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. And @laurenorder is the absolute best. Honestly. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

It was raining.

Of course.

“Ok,” Emma said sharply, stopping short in front of Merida as she nearly collided with her back. “Go over the itinerary one more time.”  
  
Merida glanced down at the clipboard in her hand and nodded once and Emma got the very distinct impression she was being placated – she didn’t care.

This was it.

Opening night, season opener, first start of a run at the Cup and five weeks of planning coming to some sort of head on the block in front of the Garden. She could already hear the crowd outside – even in her office on the 25th floor – and they’d started lining up hours ago, a sea of blue and white and _noise_ and some of them had even brought signs.

She saw at least one _Jones’ing for Jones_ sign and nearly tripped over her own feet, trying to get her phone out fast enough to take a picture and send it to Killian.

He didn’t answer and she hadn’t really been expecting him to, his own ridiculous pre-game schedule as firmly cemented in her mind as the one Merida was holding. It was walkthroughs and PT and a final run with med to make sure his collarbone wouldn’t actually shatter if he got hit and then food and blue carpet arrivals and, well, puck drop.

And it was raining.

“Are the tents finished, yet?” Emma asked, not giving Merida a chance to actually read the itinerary. “Ah, fuck, sorry, Mer. Ok. Itinerary first and then talk to me about the tents.”  
  
“The tents are fine. The whole carpet is covered and even most of the fans and the rest of them don’t really care because they’re they’ve been standing out there for hours and no one has rioted yet. There’s no lightning yet either, so that seems like a plus.”  
  
“That was out of order.”  
  
“Ah, well, you’re super worried about the tents.” Merida cocked one eyebrow and Emma did her best to actually act surprised at being completely called out by her assistant in the middle of the hallway. She wasn’t.

In the last five weeks, Merida had fallen into her role perfectly, some sort of RADAR-type extension of Emma who seemed to be able to read her mind nearly as much as Mary Margaret could.

“Itinerary,” Emma said, tapping on the clipboard and ignoring the feel of her vibrating phone in her back pocket.

“You’ve got about twenty minutes to get hot chocolate before the band finishes setting up, under the tents by the way, and then we’ve got to get down there. We’ve swapped out the busses because they don’t have roofs and God help us all if one of the guys gets sick because of this because Arthur will absolutely lose his mind.”  
  
“The cars are set then? They’re eating a couple of blocks away.”  
  
Merida nodded, not asking how Emma knew where the New York Rangers were going to eat before their season opener. She probably figured it was just professional courtesy, a backup plan for the backup plan and not because Killian had told her the night before, in between PT and film, half a donut in one hand as he held it away from her to brush his lips across her cheek.

She hadn’t thought about how his other hand had squeezed her hip before he walked away for the rest of the night and she’d muttered something that sounded a bit like _romance_ under her breath, making him shoot her a grin over his shoulder from the other end of the hallway.

Of course not.

“The cars are set,” Merida promised. “They’ll be here in half an hour.”  
  
“Do we know if Scarlet is wearing a suit?” Merida lowered her eyebrows, not prepared for questions about an NHL defenseman’s wardrobe and Emma sighed. “Never mind,” she said quickly, brushing her hand through the air. “Ok, so they’re here in a half an hour. We walk them down the carpet, they sign some autographs, pose for pictures, Arthur gives his speech, the fans go wild, they win some prizes, we film them cheering and losing their minds for the site and then game on.”  
  
“Game on,” Merida repeated, nodding once. “See, boss, you didn’t need to go over it again. You’ve planned for everything.”

She had. Twice. And then a third time, just to make sure, a small pile of half-finished to-do-lists and crumpled up notes taking up residence in the corner of Mary Margaret’s coffee table.

She’d planned for all of it – except for that moment outside the restaurant and telling Killian the _almost truth_ about Neal, realizing belatedly that she hadn’t even told him his name, and she thought about that just as much as she’d thought about the night’s itinerary and how he kept touching her hip like it was some sort of thing.

She hadn’t planned for that, but the words had fallen out of her easily, coming quickly and simply as soon as she found him staring at his phone, already certain what was going through his mind.

And maybe she just wanted him to believe in her as much as she wanted to believe _in_ him – an exercise in trust that might have been wholly one-sided because, in the last five weeks, Emma had come to realize Killian Jones kept touching her hip like it was some sort of thing because it absolutely was.

They’d been dating without actually going on a date and maybe, at some point, Emma should do something about that.

She wanted in a way she couldn’t ever remember wanting and it was terrifying and exciting and just a bit exhilarating and he’d worked his way into her life like he’d always belonged there. God, she wore his _actual_ jersey and the look on his face when he realized it was worth the forty-five minute battle with Kristoff.

They were in the deep end before Emma realized they’d even gotten in the pool.

She was totally going to ask him out.

Or possibly jump him post-game.

She hadn’t entirely decided yet.

Her phone buzzed again and Emma reached into her pocket, nodding towards Merida and mouthing _hot chocolate_ before her assistant was nothing more than a blur of red curls darting towards the break room on the other end of the floor.  

“Hey,” Emma said as soon as she saw Mary Margaret’s face on her phone screen. “You guys here?”  
  
“And under the tents. This is...incredible, Emma. Honestly. The fans are going nuts and the team’s not even here yet.”  
  
“You can’t feel the rain under the tents?”  
  
Mary Margaret laughed and even Emma had to admit it was a particularly dumb question, but this was the biggest event she’d ever planned and it was opening night and she still had to get changed at some point. “No, Emma,” Mary Margaret promised. “The tents are doing their job. And it’s not even really raining that hard anymore. It’s, like, almost warm out.”  
  
“It’s not, but I appreciate the effort to make it seem like I’m not losing my mind.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“I’ll be down in like fifteen minutes or so, ok? I’ve still got to change and Mer’s supposed to bring hot chocolate.”  
  
“We’ve got hot chocolate.”  
  
“What? How’d you sneak that in?”  
  
“David might have gone all NYPD on security and there was badge flashing and a lot of ridiculous faces and he pretended like he had some ounce of control in any of this and they let us in with hot chocolate.”  
  
Emma’s shoulders sagged a bit under the metaphorical weight of friendship or something equally sentimental and she shook her head slowly, barely even noticing as Merida pushed a cup into her hands. “You guys are something else, you know that?”  
  
“Ah, well, we did adopt you as our own so we figured we’d go full stage-parents on the season opener.”  
  
“That’s fair.” Mary Margaret laughed softly and David was yelling something that sounded suspiciously like the goal song in the background before transitioning into a _LET’S GO RANGERS_ chant that had Emma rolling her eyes. “Jeez, he’s really going all in, isn’t it?”  
  
“He’s wearing head to toe blue,” Mary Margaret mumbled.

“Boss,” Merida cut in, phone pressed to her ear. “There’s a kid downstairs? He’s at the team entrance? Claims he knows you and you’ve got him a seat in the box later?”

“Oh shit,” Emma muttered and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue on the other end of the phone. “I forgot about Henry.”  
  
“Who’s Henry?” Mary Margaret and Merida asked at the same time.

“GD kid,” Emma said, not sure who she was answering. She glanced up at Merida who was furiously scanning the itinerary in her hand as if Henry’s name would suddenly appear in front of her. It wouldn’t.

“Mer,” she continued, ignoring Mary Margaret’s continued questions. “Go down and tell security he’s cool and, uh, Reese’s, can he come sit with you guys for a couple of minutes? I’ve got to get changed and is the band done setting up?”  
  
“They’re playing,” Mary Margaret answered. “And as long as this kid doesn’t mind David screaming like he’s also a kid then, I don’t see why not.”  
  
“Well the kid is eleven, so it’ll almost match up.”  
  
David grumbled in the background – somehow able to hear Emma’s insult between his chanting and cheering. “It’ll be perfect then,” Mary Margaret said.

“Ok,” Emma mumbled, talking more to herself than Mary Margaret. Merida was still standing there, waiting for further instructions. “He’ll sit with Reese’s,” she said. “They’re...where are you guys sitting?”

Emma got an answer and sent Merida down to the team exit and it was going to be _fine._ There was a schedule and a plan and the tents wouldn’t collapse at any point, mostly because Emma had asked the people putting the tents up that very same question no less than half a dozen times that afternoon.

Her phone buzzed again and Emma grabbed it from the top of her desk – resorting to changing into the absurdly blue dress she was wearing that night in her office because she hadn’t really seen much of the outside world at all that day – glancing down expecting to see an update from Mary Margaret.

It was not an update from Mary Margaret.

He was smiling in the picture, that one piece of hair falling across his forehead doing absolutely ridiculous things to the state of Emma’s heartbeat and she felt her breath catch almost audibly in her throat as she sank onto the edge of her desk.

And it was absolutely rushed because the edges of his face were just a bit blurred, like he’d tugged his phone down quickly to make sure that the linemates he was sharing a car with didn’t see him taking a picture and sending it to his...had they decided on girlfriend? Boyfriend and girlfriend?

Was that was happening?  
  
They’d definitely landed collectively on dating.

There was a message underneath – and there was something to be said for how good Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, managed to look even in a slightly blurry photo because it took Emma, at least, a full minute to notice the text underneath.

_Good luck, Swan._

Game on.

* * *

She made it to the stands and the blue carpet in, almost, fifteen minutes flat, struggling to run while also trying to make sure her heels didn’t pop out of her shoes. It was packed and Mary Margaret was right – the tents were fine.

The band was playing and the fans were cheering and she saw another Killian Jones sign a few feet in front of her as Emma’s eyes scanned the crowd to try and find Mary Margaret.

“Em,” David shouted, waving his hand for good measure and she nodded towards him, pushing up the staircase towards their designated spot in the bleachers.

“Hey,” she sighed when she got there, a bit out of breath as she leaned against the railing. “You guys good here? Henry, you good?”  
  
He nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide and Emma wasn’t convinced he had blinked since Merida had saved him from Garden security.

“He’s almost as good at cheering as I am,” David said, resting his arm around Henry’s shoulders easily. “Almost.”  
  
“He’s better,” Mary Margaret added softly and Emma felt the smile on her face immediately. “You ok? You look all...flushed.”  
  
Emma widened her eyes meaningfully, hoping that whole being able to communicate telepathically thing would work in the bleachers on 33rd Street. It did. Mary Margaret’s mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’ and Emma hadn’t really told her the complete truth about the last two weeks and the text messages and the ridiculous amount of kissing, but it didn’t seem to matter because she knew anyway.

Maybe Emma was only capable of talking about relationships on the floor of expensive bridal boutiques on the Lower East Side.

That was depressing. And probably true.

The crowd roared to life when the first car pulled up at the end of the block and Emma’s head snapped around when the band started playing the goal music, breath catching in her throat all over again.

They were chanting.

The entire crowd, all of them decked out in blue and some of them with face paint and those few Jones signs she’d spotted – all of them screaming and cheering and _chanting_ his last name as soon as Killian stepped out of the car.

And Emma couldn’t get enough oxygen into her lungs, throat tightening and mouth going dry and she knew this was coming, knew he was popular and the goddamn captain of the team, but she hadn’t really planned to tell him about Neal or land collectively on _dating_ two nights before and the terror hit her with all the force of a wave, threatening to knock her over despite the fact that she was still leaning on the railing.

She didn’t run, mostly because she couldn’t move.

It wasn’t fair – he looked too good. She was mad about how good he looked, tie matching the blue in his eyes and the blue in the jersey he’d wear eventually and they’d all chant his name again, as soon as he stepped onto the ice.

Emma tried to take another deep breath, far too aware of Mary Margaret’s concerned glance darting her direction every few seconds, and it, finally, worked, nerves settling just a bit when she closed her eyes lightly.

There were more cars and more screaming and they’d started chanting for Jefferson now, an impossible rally-call that didn’t really make much sense considering the number of syllables in his name. Emma tugged her hair over her shoulder and she hadn’t actually opened her eyes yet, mind drifting back to the reasons she had told him about Neal and, maybe, why she hadn’t run away yet – she didn’t want to.

She glanced back down at the carpet – only a few feet away from she was still standing – and she couldn’t imagine how he managed to walk in a straight line when there were so many fans and flashing lights and Mulan practically had her camera in his face, yelling to look that direction.

He probably didn’t have his phone, Emma reasoned, but she’d never actually texted him back before and, well, there was a chance.

**Nice suit.**

Killian glanced down almost as soon as she’d sent the message, tugging one hand out of his pocket and his eyebrows dropped low when he glanced at the screen. He couldn’t actually text back, but his head moved on a swivel, trying to figure out where she was and something in the back of Emma’s mind sounded at that, the quick rush she got from the way his eyes narrowed as he tried to find her.

She knew the moment he did – the smile on his face quelling any desire to run away – and Henry was jumping up and down as soon as Killian moved towards the stairs. He was in front of them half a moment later, nodding towards Emma and smiling at Henry.

“You ready for the game, kid?” Killian asked, leaning towards Henry and Emma nearly gasped when his hand brushed across the side of her dress.

“Absolutely,” Henry yelled, still bobbing on the balls of his feet. “The Islanders are garbage anyway. You guys are totally going to roll.”

Killian hummed in approval, leaning forward to tug on the ‘C’ in the corner of Henry’s jersey. “Didn’t we get you a new jersey?” Henry was still wearing the Cup Finals one he’d worn to practice. “Swan, didn’t we get the kid new merch?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Looks like he’s got a favorite. And you’re not supposed to be up here. Technically.”  
  
“Spoilsport.”  
  
“My event, my rules. Come on, Jones, back on the carpet.”  
  
He leaned away, smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth and he absolutely knew Emma had resorted to last names to try and maintain some semblance of control. She was bordering dangerously close to _jumping him_ territory.

“Of course, Swan,” he muttered, saluting with two fingers and that stupid smirk plastered on his face. “See ya, Henry.”  
  
“Bye,” Henry yelled and no one noticed Killian’s hand when it lingered on Emma’s back before he half-sprinted back down the steps.

It went fine.

No, Emma thought as she continued to pace in the back of the suite, a plate of half-eaten food held loosely in her hand. It was better than fine.

It had gone perfectly – a picture of efficiency and tents that didn’t fall down and Henry told everyone who would listen about how Killian had come talk to them. Will had even worn a suit. The fans cheered and Arthur's speech wasn’t nearly as awful as it had been two nights before, hitting all the high points without actually including any swear words that would do irreparable damage to the _children_ in the crowd.

They’d stuck to the itinerary and everything went perfectly, but it took Emma the first two periods to make sure everything had wrapped up as perfectly as it had run and she had tents to get _down_ now and the irony of that was close to absurd.

She, finally, got back into the arena a few minutes before the third period started, pacing back and forth and dragging her fork across the plate of the Garden-provided food as the game went on in the background.

They were winning – she knew that, at least, with the amount of yelling coming from David and Henry’s general direction, shouting and jumping every few minutes.

Emma’s feet were actually starting to hurt from the pacing, anxious energy settling in the pit of her stomach and she’d never been a particularly _nervous_ fan, but she’d never been dating the captain of the New York Rangers either.

And Mary Margaret totally knew.

She sank into the chair next to Mary Margaret, who visibly winced when Will crashed into the boards, bringing an Islanders forward with him. “How’s it going?” Emma asked, realizing she was still holding a plate of half-eaten food.

“The game or, like, me as a human?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“Both are going ok, but they really do hit each other a lot, don’t they?”  
  
“That’s just Will,” Emma said, sitting up a bit straighter when an Islanders jersey worked into the Rangers’ zone and ripped off a shot that hit, loudly, off the crossbar. “Jeez,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Arthur’s going to kill them if that’s how they’ve been playing all game. Is that how they’ve been playing all game?”  
  
David shook his head, not looking away when the referee dropped the puck in the faceoff circle, a new line on the ice that included Phillip the Rookie. They lost the faceoff. Emma, David and  Henry groaned simultaneously. “Although,” David continued, glancing at Emma over his shoulder. “They’re kind of playing like crap now.”  
  
Emma groaned again, watching another line change and Arthur was going to put a hole through the floor behind the bench, barking out orders and pacing even more than she had been just a few minutes before.

She, finally, put her plate down, opting instead to tap her fingers nervously along the front of her chin as she leaned forward and watched the game play out.

They really were playing like crap now.

The Islanders had five scoring chances and Will got two minutes for tripping – in the offensive zone, making Arthur throw something that looked like it had, at one point, been a white board before he snapped it in half against the glass behind the bench.

Henry sighed when the Islanders tied the game, on the power play no less, a shot that flew just above Jefferson’s outstretched glove and into the right corner of the net with the first line on the ice.

“God dammit,” Emma muttered, kicking at the floor before remembering that there was a plate of half-eaten food there.  
  
“They’ll get it back,” Henry promised and Emma couldn’t quite bring herself to argue with him, pressed up against the glass of the suite, determination in his voice.

She sank back into her chair – fourth line on the ice now and Arthur was still screaming – and Mary Margaret was staring at her intently, the desire to _talk_ almost painfully obvious on her face. “Alright,” Emma sighed. “Go ahead.”  
  
“What?” Mary Margaret asked.  
  
“Ask me whatever you’re waiting to ask me.”  
  
“It’s more of a statement than a question.”  
  
“Either or.”

“Killian took his phone out before he came up to talk to Henry.”  
  
“You’re right,” Emma said slowly, not entirely sure where this was going.

“You had your phone out too.”  
  
Emma waited for the rest of the statement and the inevitable questions and they never came – Mary Margaret was going to make her actually say it. “You sure David’s the detective and not you? You’d be great on a crime scene.”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Mary Margaret laughed, smacking lightly at Emma’s arm. “I”m just saying.”  
  
“That’s true. You did say.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, Reese’s? You’re just making statements.”  
  
“With a purpose though.”  
  
“And that is?”  
  
“To get you to talk. Or consider talking. Or maybe explaining why you’ve been walking around on some sort of metaphorical cloud for the last few weeks.”  
  
“A metaphorical cloud?”  
  
“Well, I mean, you couldn’t be walking on an actual cloud,” Mary Margaret said.

Emma almost told her – she was half a breath away from it, a bit desperate to explain to Mary Margaret that she might have actually been _happy_ and on her way to something resembling trust.

She didn’t.

Because, somewhere deep in the very center of Emma Swan’s being, she was still a bit of a coward and, technically, they hadn’t even really gone on a date yet.

Mary Margaret sighed softly when she realized Emma wasn’t going to actually say anything, disappointment flashing across her face as she tugged on her engagement ring. Emma didn’t roll her eyes at that – that seemed like a victory.

“I thought we talked about the set-up ideas, Reese’s,” Emma said, ducking her head so she was back in Mary Margaret’s eyeline. David and Henry were still oblivious to the conversation, pounding on the glass now as the game stayed tied and the minutes kept ticking down and Arthur’s very angry face continued to flash on the jumbotron screen hanging above center ice.

“This isn’t, technically, a set-up,” Mary Margaret argued. “Just...a statement. Two statements. Not even questions.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“You went to the restaurant two nights ago, didn’t you? Rubes said you wore his jersey.”  
  
“True. Also that was a question.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, Reese’s?”  
  
“And you never actually gave me any sort of update after you went to get your phone, which was totally code and we both knew it was code and, come on, Emma.”

Mary Margaret huffed slightly, sliding down into her seat and Emma couldn’t mask the laugh at the look on her face, disgruntled and frustrated and she hadn’t actually asked any questions – and Emma felt worse for not saying anything.

They’d decided.

Or, well, Emma had decided and Killian had agreed and they were whatever other word for under the radar that still meant under the radar, despite the fact that his hand had lingered on her back when he came into the bleachers.

And Emma was Emma and she still hadn’t explained _everything_ and trusting Killian Jones with _everything_ was a distinct work in progress.

She didn’t tell Mary Margaret.

“We’re just friends, Reese’s,” Emma said, the lying falling off her tongue as easily as anything she’d ever said in her life. “Honestly.”  
  
“You texted him though.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“To talk to Henry?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes – and her whole head for good measure – and Emma did her best to keep her face even, images of that stupid suit and the smirk on his face and _his hand on her back._

It didn’t really work.

Emma knew it didn’t work as soon as Mary Margaret quirked her lips, nodding slowly and impassively and it felt a bit like being in school and getting pacified by a teacher and that was exactly what was happening.

Mary Margaret totally didn’t believe her.

Henry yelped, jumping up and hitting the window in front of him quickly, the heel of his palm making the panes practically shake, and even David was shouting too, calling for Emma at the same time he was screaming to _skate into the zone._

Emma leapt out of her seat – just barely avoiding the food she still hadn’t moved off the floor – and she was next to Henry half a breath later, just quick enough to see Killian all but sprinting up the ice, the puck just out of reach of his outstretched stick.

He was fast. Ridiculously fast. A blue blur half a step ahead of the closest defender and Emma was only dimly aware of Henry’s cheers next to her, her own hands pressed up flat against the window, shoulders moving quickly as she tried to catch her breath.

A breakaway.

He’d promised her a breakaway.

David kept yelling to _skate faster_ and Emma mumbled something under her breath that might have been _how could he_ and the Islanders goalie started inching out of the crease, stick swiping across the ice in front of him.

Killian didn’t slow down.

“They changed the lines,” Henry muttered, tilting his head in confusion at the other winger on the ice.

“Phillip the Rookie,” Emma said, nodding towards the other streak of blue on the ice. “That’s Phillip the Rookie.”  
  
“He’s fast.”

Emma hummed in agreement and she was positive a single play had never moved so quickly and so slowly all at the same time. “Take the shot,” David yelled, banging on the window as if that would somehow make Killian shoot quicker.

“Nah,” Henry objected. “Watch he’s going to dump it off.”  
  
He did, stopping suddenly and flipping his stick back behind him, puck landing just in front of Phillip and Emma barely had a chance to properly gape at Henry before the light behind the net went off and the cheer erupted from the entire crowd.

Emma jumped, both arms thrown in the air as Henry yelled and even Mary Margaret stood up, smile on her face a soon as David wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

They won.

* * *

She got Henry back downtown – a rep from the house grumbling slightly about having to come to the Garden on a Friday night – and she made sure to hug him an extra second longer before watching him get in the cab, followed shortly by Mary Margaret and David.

There was still a community to relate to and Instagrams to update and celebratory tweets and video sent out to season-tickets of the game-winning goal and highlights of Phillip the Rookie earning first star in his very first NHL season game.

Emma was fairly certain he’d never stop smiling.

And it was nearly two hours after the end of the game by the time Emma realized it was two hours after the end of the game, exhaustion settling on her shoulders suddenly and without her complete permission, right there in the hallway.

Emma took a deep breath, twisting her neck and it had been a day – exhausting and exhilarating and they’d _won_. Maybe she was the one who wouldn’t ever stop smiling. “Hey, Emma,” a voice said, catching her short as she snapped her head up quickly.

Phillip the Rookie was still smiling.

“Hey,” she said. “Congratulations! That was an awesome shot.”  
  
“Ah, well, it was a good pass.”  
  
“Make sure they buy you coffee and donuts before film tomorrow afternoon. Seems only fair.”  
  
Phillip the Rookie opened his mouth, probably to mutter something about he _didn’t mind_ buying coffee and donuts if he had to because he was a rookie and he was still smiling, but he snapped his jaw shut at the sound of shoes behind him.

He was still wearing his suit – or wearing the suit again – and Emma traced her tongue over the back of her teeth, far too aware of the continued presence of Phillip the Rookie in the middle of the hallway.

“If anyone’s getting coffee and donuts delivered to them for film tomorrow, I think it should be me,” Killian said, smirk back on his face and eyebrows doing something ridiculous as he rocked back on his heels, staring at Emma. “After all, it was a hell of a pass.”  
  
“That’s totally true, Cap,” Phillip said quickly and Emma didn’t even try to hide her eye roll.

“You’re already on the team, Phillip,” she mumbled. “You don’t need to coax his ego anymore. It was a good pass though.”  
  
“A compliment, Swan?”  
  
“A fact.”  
  
Killian moved his eyebrows again, not turning his gaze away from Emma. Phillip the Rookie was, blissfully, ignorant. “A bunch of the guys are heading back uptown to get some food, if you’re interested Cap,” he said, sounding a bit like he was a freshman in high school trying to impress the senior. “We could split a cab.”  
  
Emma tilted her head, shrugging quickly and Killian, finally, looked at Phillip. “Ah, that’s ok, Rook,” he said. “I think I’m just going to head home. Something about being old and needing to sleep after the opener.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Phillip said, glancing back at Emma. “You need a ride?”  
  
“Uh...no,” Emma answered. She was the worst liar in the world. “I’ve still got some post stuff to do after the event.”  
  
“It went really well. I mean, I’ve never been to an opener before, but it was pretty cool and the fans were super psyched. The tents were great too. Who knew you could get bright blue tents like that.”  
  
“Thanks, Phillip.”  
  
He nodded enthusiastically, glancing at Killian once more before he muttered a quick _see ya tomorrow,_ leaving them very alone in the middle of the hallway in the bowels of Madison Square Garden.  

“It was a nice pass,” Emma said, voice sounding impressively loud in the otherwise abandoned hallway.

“It wasn’t quite a breakaway,” Killian countered. He took a step towards her, in Emma’s space in half a second and she hadn’t even taken a full breath before she exhaled loudly, the feel of his fingers on her hip making the oxygen rush out of her completely. She rested her hands on the front of his jacket, thumb ghosting over the line of his lapels.

“Ah, well, you’ve got all season to live up to that particular promise.”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, eyes tracing down her dress and his hand tightened slightly. “Deal,” he murmured, leaning his head forward and Emma would have sworn she felt each letter in her very core.

“Did you star?”  
  
“Didn’t you see?”  
  
“I really did have post-event stuff to do.”  
  
“You did a fantastic job, Swan. We should have lead with that. Nothing about almost-breakaway goals.”  
  
She was blushing – could feel the heat of it in her cheeks and she knew Killian noticed, eyes going wide for half a moment when he pulled back to look at her. “Game-winner though,” Emma argued, tugging on the front of his jacket for extra emphasis. “Now come on, tell me, did you star?”  
  
“Third. Phillip the Rookie was the one who actually scored the goal, love.”

She muttered something under her breath and Emma was a bit surprised to find herself in the deep end of _defensive_ so quickly, not even objecting to the endearment. That kept happening more and more often. She maybe, almost, sort of liked it.

“That’s stupid,” Emma mumbled.

“I like this defensive side of you, Swan. You know getting star doesn’t actually mean anything.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
He grinned at her – smirk long gone as soon as they stopped pretending and were by themselves and there was something to that, something big and important and vaguely overwhelming that had been sitting in the back of Emma’s mind, like it was just waiting for the moment when she was, finally, ready to talk about it.

And she wasn’t ready to talk about it then.

Not yet.

She didn’t run, though, didn’t move an inch or let go of the vice-like grip she had on his jacket – she used it as leverage instead, appreciating Killian’s soft _oof_ when she yanked him towards her and kissed him, soundly.

They were in the middle of the hallway, but Emma got the distinct impression if there had been an actual wall or a door nearby, she would have been pushed up against it, Killian pressing forward quickly, hips meeting hers as he moved underneath her to try and lift her up. Her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore, hands moving across skin and the back of his jacket and up into his hair.

He made some sort of noise in the back of his throat, an entirely unfair sound that made the little breath Emma still had in her lungs catch in her throat. She pulled away, chest heaving just a bit and everything felt a bit too tight and a bit too warm and they needed to get out of this goddamn hallway – and maybe find a wall.

“You want to get out of here?” Emma asked, determination sparking through her veins and she might not have been ready to talk about it, but she knew what she wanted. She wanted him.

Killian’s eyes widened again, mouth dropping open in surprise and he still hadn’t put her back on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he supported her weight. “Right now?” he asked, all bravado lost in the question.

Emma felt a distinct rush of power when his voice shook just a bit, the certainty that he wanted right back, settling into the bottom of her stomach, like some sort of soft fire that sent shockwaves through all of her limbs.

That didn’t make sense.

It didn’t matter.

The metaphor didn’t need to make sense – not when he was looking at her like that and she still wasn’t actually standing on her own. “Right now,” Emma repeated.

“Where? Where do you want to go?”  
  
She hadn’t been expecting the question and Emma huffed slightly when she realized she couldn’t coyly mutter the words _my place_ like this was some sort of over-the-top romance because she didn’t have a place – just a couch in Mary Margaret’s loft.

He figured that out too.

“We could…” he said slowly, shifting his arms slightly and Emma twisted against him, trying to get her feet back on the floor. “Swan,” Killian hissed, sucking in his breath between his teeth. “You can’t do that, love.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, laughter threatening to bubble out and she nodded like it was the most serious thing in the entire world. “What were you saying?”  
  
“Well, I mean, we could...I have an apartment.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Are you questioning my apartment or whether or not we can go there?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“Yes to both,” he said, hands falling back on her hips while he did something absurd with his eyebrows. “If you want.”  
  
And there it was – the puck in her zone or the ball in her court or whatever sports metaphor she wanted to use at the moment. He was letting her pick.

He wasn’t going to push.

Emma nodded. “Yeah,” she said and the word didn’t scratch her throat or stutter on her tongue, a certainty she didn’t expect, but appreciated just the same. “Yeah, I do.”  
  
They must have set some sort of record leaving the Garden – his hand in hers or hers in his and smiles on their faces and Emma couldn’t stop the laughter if she tried, a mix of excitement and that same nervous energy whenever Killian’s eyes darted towards hers. He walked them out the goddamn front door, slipping into the somehow still-present crowd on 34th Street and threw his arm out over the edge of the sidewalk, a cab screeching to a stop almost as quickly as he’d hailed it.

“Between you and Reese’s, you guys make it look like this is just easy,” Emma muttered, sliding along the seat and only vaguely distracted by Killian’s fingers on the back of her neck.

“It’s fairly easy, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s just because you’re like Mr. New York or something.”  
  
“No one has ever called me that in my entire life.”  
  
“Not to your face.”  
  
“Wasn’t it a compliment?”  
  
Emma didn’t answer, just made a face and his laugh might actually be her new favorite sound, even more than that one noise he made when she tugged on his lower lip – she’d never thought something so absurdly sentimental in her entire life.

The driver cleared his throat, moving into traffic as he glanced at them in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

“68th and Amsterdam.”

She didn’t count the minutes in the back seat of the cab or how Killian’s hand kept inching down her side, trailing over her thigh and the bend of her knee. She didn’t start chanting _in through your nose and out through your mouth_ in her head like some sort of breathing-based mantra for the thirteen-minute car ride uptown.

Not like she counted the minutes.

“Here,” the driver announced, pulling up in front of some sort of monstrosity of a building that absolutely had a doorman and a chandelier in the lobby. Emma still wasn’t doing a very good job of breathing.

Killian swiped a card and promised he didn’t need a receipt and they were out the door and halfway onto the sidewalk when the driver realized he’d just had the captain of the New York Rangers in his backseat – Emma vaguely aware of a half-shouted _Hey, aren’t you..._ as soon as Killian slammed the door shut behind them.

“Come on,” he said softly, fingers lacing through hers as he walked towards the door and the doorman and there was an elevator in this building.

“Mr. Jones,” the man said. Oh, he wasn’t a doorman. He was security. Killian lived in a building with security – around the clock security.

He nodded towards the guard and practically punched the button on the wall in front of the elevator, tapping his foot when the doors didn’t spring open immediately. “Impatient, huh?” Emma asked, falling back on jokes and sarcasm in a vain attempt to feel like she was in any type of control of the situation.

“You know this is the first time we’ve ever actually been alone, Swan?”

She did. She knew that – had thought about it for the thirteen minutes it had taken to get uptown, the idea weighing down on her every time she tried, and failed, to take a breath. The doors opened before Emma couldn't respond and she took a step forward, pressing her back against the far wall of the elevator.

She lost her train of thought as soon as she turned back around, Killian’s eyes a shade darker than they usually were – or maybe that was just those romantic tendencies that were rearing their head – but Emma didn’t really care about the reasoning behind it, scientific or otherwise, just that he was looking at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered in the history of the entire goddamn universe.

He didn’t hesitate when he stepped forward, back in her space and she might have been obsessed with his hair, but he had some sort of _thing_ for holding on to her hips like they were an anatomical life vest, so Emma felt like they were almost on even footing.

And she’d been right about the wall.

Killian must have pressed a button at some point – Emma was almost positive they were moving, but that might have just been her and maybe she was floating or something equally ridiculous because she couldn't really think when he moved his whole body against her, pushing her farther against the wall. Her back hit a railing, the metal digging into the bottom of her spine and she arched forward before she considered the consequences of that, hips hitting against his and it was obvious how much he wanted.

That was, definitely, even footing.

He kissed her hard and it was needy and a bit desperate and Emma gave as good as she got, hips moving up to try and find some friction.

This was the longest elevator ride in the history of the world.

Neither one of them made a move for clothes – far too aware that this was still an elevator and there was still another door in between them and, presumably, a bedroom and a bed and when the elevator dinged to signal their arrival on the, _jeez_ , twenty-second floor, and Emma wasn’t sure if she was groaning from having to walk again or because he’d started using his teeth against the side of her neck.

“We need to move,” she mumbled, straightening just a bit when his fingers found their way underneath the edge of her dress. “We’ll just be stuck in this elevator forever.”  
  
“Doesn’t seem quite so bad.”  
  
“Killian,” Emma sighed and when she leaned back he was smiling.

He nodded, lacing his fingers back through hers as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching her and directed them down the hall to the only door at the end of the carpet, fumbling in his pocket for a moment when Emma started kissing along his jaw. “If we want to actually get inside, Swan, I’m going to need to eventually open the door.”  
  
She hummed against his skin, appreciating the way he sighed at the contact and the goosebumps that had shot up underneath her touch. “Swan,” Killian mumbled and it must have been his turn to sigh.

They were very good at teasing each other.

He finally got the door open and Emma felt herself moving quickly, feet off the floor again and one heel flying off her foot when her back collided with another door. Killian had his hands on either side of her, pinning her against the wood and she couldn’t move her hands quickly enough, tugging on what she was certain was a ridiculously expensive suit jacket and a far too complicated belt and buttons that were probably hand stitched.

They were a mess of limbs and lips and the desperation to get clothes off was just as strong as it had been in the elevator and Emma exhaled softly when she heard the telltale signs of a zipper being tugged – her zipper.

“You found that very quickly,” she muttered, working a soft chuckle out of Killian as he tugged the fabric off her shoulders and down around the curve of her hips.

“You’ll find I can accomplish quite a bit when I’m particularly determined, Swan.”  
  
“That so?” He nodded, pushing the fabric farther down until it was just a pool of blue at Emma’s feet. “And what, exactly, Captain, are you hoping to accomplish?”  
  
His eyes widened a bit when she called him that – which had been exactly what she’d been trying to accomplish in the first place – and Emma smiled like _she’d_ set up the game-winner in the final minute of regulation.

At least that was until he moved his hand again and his fingers weren’t on her hips anymore, dipping lower until his eyes widened and Emma couldn’t think of anything except him and the feel of him and, right then, she didn’t care if it ended or what would happen _when_ it did, just wanted him everywhere all at once.

She gasped when he moved his hand again and she was half a breath away from knees buckling, gripping the shirt he, somehow, still had on just a bit tighter than necessary. She squeezed her eyes closed before it happened, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder when the entire world felt like it exploded.

“Alright, love?” Killian asked, words soft in her ear. Emma nodded against his shirt, trying to figure out when the Earth shifted on its axis.

“Better,” she promised. She lifted her head up to find him staring at her, a very particular look on his face and she hadn’t ever been looked at like that – a slew of adjectives Emma was certain were firmly entrenched in _romantic_ and _sentimental_ and his thumb traced over her jaw when he smiled at her, the ends of his mouth barely moving.  
  
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Emma muttered, gripping fabric tightly in her fist.

“I was focused on a few other things first.”  
  
“Come on, I assume this very fancy apartment in this very fancy building has a bedroom.”  
  
“It does.”  
  
“Well lead the way, Captain.”  
  
His face shifted slightly, smile stuttering just a bit and, eventually, Emma would remember that moment as the moment she _knew_ – she knew him or wanted to know him and wanted to prove something very particular. Killian Jones was a good guy.

Even without the captaincy or the hockey or the third star in the New York Rangers season opener.

Killian Jones was enough.

“Killian,” Emma corrected softly and the smile returned almost immediately. “Come on.”  
  
They hadn’t actually been that far from the bedroom, a short hallway off the right of a kitchen that was the opposite of the alcove in Mary Margaret’s loft and Emma gasped again when they walked through the door – windows across the far wall and Lincoln Center two blocks away and everything was bright and she couldn’t hear the sirens that always seemed to exist in New York City. It was quiet.

And everything seemed to reset.

He moved behind her, turning her around until her knees hit up against the mattress and Emma sank onto blankets and pillows, Killian hovering just above her. She tried not to let the nerves creep back in, tried not to blink too much or shift against the, frankly, ridiculous amount of pillows on his bed, but she was Emma and Emma was, at her core, uncertain and untrusting and the Earth had shifted on its axis a few minutes before, but she hadn’t quite caught up completely yet.

She wasn’t a fool – or inexperienced – and she knew there was a whole section of the New York Rangers fandom that wasn’t interested in anything more than Killian’s, admittedly, attractive face and the way he fit in his jersey and there...there must have been moments.

He’d been in New York for years, an entire career as the face of the franchise, and it had only been five weeks.

Open book.

She was an open book.

Killian pulled his hand up her side, eyes lightening a bit as he ducked his head and trailed kisses across her collarbone. “Are you sure, Emma?” he asked softly, the warmth from his hand settling into the space between her ribs.

He’d never called her Emma before and that did it – she was certain.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she said.

“That’s kind of an aggressive approach,” Killian laughed, leaning over her to reach towards a nightstand and responsibility and his hips bucked when Emma’s nails scraped across his thigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

He did, eventually, kiss her and it wasn’t quite as desperate as it had been before, wasn’t quite as determined or aggressive as Emma had demanded it be – it was slower, bordering dangerously close to lazy, like he was trying to memorize every shift in her body and the feel of her lips on his and it wasn’t quite as overwhelming as it probably should have been.

Her back arched when Killian moved a particular way, an entire constellation exploding behind her eyes and he made a very specific type of noise that she’d probably think about for, at least, the next week.

She considered leaving.

She did.

She thought about the dress still sitting on the floor just inside Killian’s front door and how easy it would be to get out of the bed and back in her dress and twenty blocks uptown before Mary Margaret or David realized she wasn’t asleep on the couch.

Emma thought about it and then Killian shifted behind her, the arm around her waist tightening just a bit until her back was against his front. “Don’t go, Emma,” he whispered and it was probably good she wasn’t looking at him because she had to bite her lip to make sure her voice didn’t shake when she answered.

“It is kind of late.”

It wasn’t.

“Exactly.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. She wouldn’t have gotten up, no matter what time it was. She had no idea what time it was.

“Ok,” Emma said, shifting again and they _fit_ in a way that shouldn’t have made sense. It did.

She didn’t leave and they didn’t really sleep for what felt like hours, roaming hands and curious touches and they were _absolutely_ memorizing each other. He called her _Emma_ three more times.

Not like she was counting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happeningggggggg. 
> 
> I am, as always, so absolutely thrilled at how much you guys enjoy this story and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate every click, comment, kudos and message. It means the absolute world. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

He always woke up early.

It used to drive Liam insane – Killian waking up with the sun and there weren’t really any birds in New York except for pigeons, but he woke up with them too, suddenly and regularly as if his eyes were pre-programmed to snap open as soon as the light fell across that tiny apartment above 125th Street.

And he’d leap out of bed – or the mattress on the floor in the corner, it was never really a _bed_ – and he’d be ready to go as soon as his feet hit the floor, eyes bright and shoulders set and Liam would grumble about _five more minutes_ and Killian never listened, shaking his shoulders instead and demanding he get up as well.

It was one room. Liam didn’t really have any other choice.

He kept waking up early even when they moved downtown and he had his own room and a mattress and a box spring and a, frankly, absurd amount of pillows because Mrs. Vankald almost loved decorative pillows as much as she loved clichés and detested public transportation.

It was actually a good thing then – early-morning ice times and they didn’t take the train to Chelsea Piers, but it still took, at least, twenty minutes to get uptown and Killian regularly found himself shaking Liam’s shoulders again, demanding he get up and bring an extra bottle of Gatorade.

The practices were even earlier in Minnesota – sun barely up when Killian’s eyes snapped open. Liam grumbled then too, muttering several choice words under his breath that should have frustrated Killian, but just made him laugh – loudly. Liam hated that.

He’d woken up before Liam on draft day, a bundle of tense muscles and nervous energy that didn’t really feel entirely _human,_ an out-of-body experience that felt a bit like a dream from the moment his eyes opened until he heard his name and crossed that stage and he was a professional hockey player.

Killian couldn’t break the habit.

He rarely even needed an alarm – something in the back of his mind serving as a wake-up call far earlier than he actually needed, even as a professional hockey player who was a bit desperate to live up to expectations and, later, make amends for failing to meet those same expectations.

And if draft day had felt like a dream, then his whole career felt like some sort of alternate universe and the night before had felt like...impossible.

She hadn’t left.

He’d asked her not to – and that was a bit desperate and felt a bit like pushing and stepping over that metaphorical blue line, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

He didn’t care when he sent her the picture either, even when Will almost saw him in the back seat of the town car, falling into something that almost resembled flirting and he might have been thinking about her for the better part of the entire game – the color of her dress and the flash of her eyes when his hand landed on her back. That seemed important.

He didn’t want her to leave.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that, the last time anyone _had_ stayed, fallen asleep pressed up against his chest and when Killian did wake up, without the alarm he absolutely forgot to set the night before, his arm was still wrapped tightly around her waist.

That seemed important too.

It must have been early, he thought, not even bothering to lift his head off the pillow when he glanced towards the windows, still grey and overcast from the night before. It wasn’t raining anymore and if Killian was someone who waited for some kind of _sign_ to prove he could want what he wanted, he would have considered that particular change in the weather as a very particular type of sign.

Emma shifted against him, face burrowed against one of the half a dozen pillows they hadn’t even bothered to push off the bed the night before, and she was still asleep, breath coming slowly and easily. Killian’s, however, was not – not when she unconsciously rolled her shoulders and all of their clothes were still strewn in a line from his front door to his bedroom and, _fuck,_ he should have tried to go back to sleep.

He tried to take a deep breath, to move away from her, and the hair that was absolutely in his face, without actually jostling the mattress and he knew, immediately, it hadn’t worked. She made a noise in the back of her throat – something that was a mix between tired and content and they hadn’t _really_ slept that much – and Killian bit his lip tightly, trying to will himself away from _want_ and _desire_ and back to something that was a bit more acceptable to whatever time it was on a Saturday morning.

“What time is it?” Emma mumbled, back pressing against his chest again and she might have sounded tired, but she absolutely knew what she was doing.

“Early,” Killian answered. “Go back to sleep, Swan. I wasn’t trying to wake you up.”  
  
Emma hummed in agreement and for half a moment he thought she had fallen asleep, breath evening out again, until she turned suddenly, twisting around underneath the arm he still had draped over her. “Or,” she said slowly, voice still scratchy from sleep or a distinct lack thereof, “we could not do that.”  
  
He felt his eyebrows shoot up immediately, surprise settling on his face and he moved before his mind had really caught up to the rest of his body, lips on hers and hand gripping her waist just a shade over the wrong side of tight. Emma sighed against his mouth, shoulders falling into the mattress when he moved her onto her back and it was quicker than it had been the night before – when all he cared about was tracing every inch of skin and cataloguing every single sound she made – her hands a bit rough when they dragged down his back.

She froze almost immediately, body going stiff underneath his and Killian pulled back sharply, eyes narrowing with the sudden dread that they’d run straight into the walls he was a bit terrified of stumbling against.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, trying to work back to his side of the bed. And he wasn’t certain when he’d developed a side to the bed or when, exactly, he’d managed to work his way above her, hovering over her with his hand inching dangerously low down her thigh.

“Wait, what?” Emma asked, confusion settling on her face as well. “What were you apologizing for?”  
  
Killian dragged his hand up – doing his best to not show how disappointed he was to move away from her – and waved it through the air, glancing meaningfully at her. “It was a bit of an attack, Swan,” he said softly.

“Well, that’s dumb.”  
  
“A rather pointed opinion.”  
  
“I just realized I was scratching the heck out of your upper-body-injury back,” Emma sighed, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth and she stared at him with something that might have been amusement. “I didn’t...I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

His mouth hung open and that probably wasn’t the right reaction either because Emma’s smile disappeared almost immediately, falling back into nerves and anxious clicks of her tongue. And now he had something else to wonder about – when she’d worked her way into the middle of _everything,_ settling in the center of his life like he’d been waiting for her and he couldn’t say any of that out loud, an overwhelming sense of romance he was certain would send her sprinting towards her dress in his living room and straight out his door.

He was a greedy asshole because he didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything except stare at her intently, eyes tracing across her face and back down to her lips and the curve of her neck, and he wouldn’t say anything because, if he was being totally honest, he never wanted her to leave.

“Killian,” Emma asked, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “You’re staring.”  
  
“Ah, well, you make it easy.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but the smile was back and she hadn’t actually let him move, still hovering just above her with a distinct lack of clothing between them.

“I thought we’d agreed to tone down on the charming.”  
  
“I don’t remember that at all, Swan.”

Her breath hitched when he moved his hand back, lingering on the top of her thigh before shifting in between her legs, fingers moving everywhere except where he knew she wanted him. She squeezed her eyes shut, lips pressed together tightly when she tried to shift, determined to move her body towards him if he wasn’t going to move his hands towards her and Killian clicked his tongue quickly, shaking his head.

“Although I do remember someone accusing me last night about being impatient,” Killian said, leaning forward to whisper the words against her ear before dragging kisses down the side of her neck. “Pot calling the kettle black or something. What is it, exactly, you’re trying to accomplish here, love?”  
  
Emma groaned or maybe sighed, eyes still closed tightly and her back arched when his thumb brushed a very specific way, mouth snapping open and it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Killian,” she muttered again, pushing her shoulders into the mattress and a pillow had somehow managed to work its way under one side of her, hair fanned out over the edges of it.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“You are a tease.”

“No, no, no, not a tease, Swan. I’m simply taking my time.”  
  
“That’s also dumb,” she said sharply and he laughed before he could stop himself, smile on his face and lips still on her neck.

Emma tugged on his hair a bit tighter than necessary and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her, but he couldn’t think of anything except the way she kissed him, a mess of lips and tongue and teeth and if she was as impatient as he’d claimed she was, well, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

He gave up on teasing almost as soon as she made _that_ noise, something in the slightly tenuous control he’d been trying to maintain snapping when he could feel her everywhere all at once and they both groaned when his hand moved again. And if his breath caught in his lungs and his vision swam just a bit at how obvious it was that she wanted him – just as much as he wanted her – then it wouldn’t exactly be a lie.

Because he did – want and need and that one word kept flashing in the back of his mind like it was trying to refocus all of his energy on making sure she _knew_ it, until she believed in him and told him whatever she wasn’t, until the walls were down completely.

He didn’t say anything. Again.

He just kept moving instead, hips rocking against hers, matching up in a rhythm that didn’t quite make sense with his hand still firmly entrenched between her thighs, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop either.

Emma muttered something in his ear and he couldn’t really understand it, only a few words registering and they sounded like _you_ and _now_ and her hand was in his hair again. She grumbled when he moved and the smile on his face was probably carved there at this point, pausing only long enough to kiss her again before he all but yanked the drawer out of the night stand next to his bed.

“See,” Emma said softly. “I’m not the only one who was impatient.”  
  
“Ah, well, you were issuing demands, love. Who am I to say no to that?”

“It was hardly a demand. And you’re not exactly complaining about it, are you?”

He knew she was trying to joke, to meet his banter with some of her own, but her voice tightened a bit and her teeth were back on her lip. His mind practically screamed at him to _tell her,_ something, anything, to promise that it wasn’t a complaint, it was an honor or something equally absurd and if he woke up early with her sleeping against him every day for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t argue at all.

It was an overwhelming sort of feeling and a world-shaking realization, right there in the middle of his bed, Emma Swan still laying on her back underneath him and, God, he had a fucking condom in his hand.

But he’d always been like this – always waking up earlier than he had to and ready to prove something he didn’t really need to and this all felt a bit similar. This felt a bit like waking up.

Because she hadn’t argued with the set-up and she’d kissed him in Tarrytown and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for the last five weeks and he just wanted to get her to smile on some sort of consistent basis.

And he was a mess – a jumbled, twisted-up pretzel of emotions and guilt and the last time he’d done this, it had all blown up in his face, but he wasn’t complaining and he was three-quarters of the way towards love before he realized he’d taken the first step.

He absolutely loved her.

“I’m not complaining, love,” he said softly, tugging on the wrapper with his teeth because he couldn’t bring himself to actually stop touching her. “The complete opposite in fact.”

She smiled.

They didn’t move for what felt like hours – and that wasn’t really a problem since they actually had hours before he needed to be at film – tangled up in each other and the blankets and more of the pillows had made their way onto the floor. He thought she’d fallen asleep again.

“Tell me something,” Emma said suddenly, voice cracking through the otherwise silent apartment.

“About?”  
  
She shrugged, or at least tried to shrug, only one shoulder really moving when she shifted on her side to look at him. “Why do you have so many pillows?”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, propping his head on his right hand. “Old habits.”  
  
“Pillow-related habits?”  
  
“I was...ten? Maybe? When Mrs. Vankald decided she was going to redecorate the entire brownstone. The whole thing from top to bottom, repainted and refurnished every room, and it drove Mr. Vankald insane because there were people in the house for months and we hadn’t really been there that long and, well, like I said before none of us were particularly good at following the rules.”  
  
“The apocalypse children.”  
  
“That makes it sound far worse than it was,” Killian laughed. “Just like halfway to the apocalypse.”  
  
“What does this have to do with pillows?”

“I’m getting there, Swan, but you keep interrupting.” She made a noise in the back of her throat, muttering at him as he pressed a kiss against her temple, rolling onto his back and taking her with him until her head was resting on his shoulder, hand splayed out across his stomach. “Alright, so she was redoing the whole house and it was the first time either Liam or I got the chance to really have some sort of say in how things would look in the house. So she brought all of us to some ridiculously fancy and expensive store in SoHo and we got to pick. Whatever we wanted for all of our rooms.”  
  
“And you picked pillows?”   
  
He nodded, kissing the top of her hair again and ignoring whatever it was his stomach did when she understood something about him. “Exactly that. It was like a symbol or something.”   
  
“Of?”   
  
“Home,” Killian said simply. “You have pillows in a home, a _real_ home and that’s what it was, eventually. It took some time to feel that way and it was easier for Liam, but that was probably because I never actually wanted to date either Anna or Elsa.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, head shaking just a bit against his chest. “You said you thought they dated while he was in Minnesota.”   
  
“I still do. Neither one of them will cop to it, but I’m fairly certain. Banana is too. It doesn’t really matter though. They were always going to be this. Their picture-perfect selves and their absurdly adorable kids.”   
  
“It must be hard that they’re so far away,” Emma said softly, thumb tracing out a semi-circle across his stomach, and there was something in her voice that made him certain she _understood_ again.

“Why would you say that?”  
  
She shrugged and he could feel her lips tick up against his skin. “It was like that with Reese’s. I mean she’s not exactly my sister, but she’s been around the longest and between her and David, it’s like some built-in support system. It wasn’t always easy to have them on the other side of the country.”

It was as if he could see the walls crumbling just a bit the longer they were there, her words sinking into him and it felt a bit like common ground, that same, unspoken understanding lingering in the air around them.

There wasn’t really much air between them – there really wasn’t much space between them.

“When did you meet Mary Margaret?” he asked, certain that was a _safe_ question and didn’t feel like pushing.

“Freshman orientation,” Emma answered immediately. “They did those ice-breaker things, you know, the ones that are almost painful to actually participate in and we ended up sitting next to each other. She thinks it was fate.”  
  
“And you don’t?”  
  
“I’m not so big on fate. Seems a little romantic for the real world,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice and that, obviously, hadn’t been the right question. “We lived together all four years, even once we moved off campus and that apartment in Boston was awful.” Emma laughed quietly, recalling a memory or a moment and Killian tightened his hold on her waist instinctively.

“She and David started dating our sophomore year. He’d been around when we were freshmen, but they’d been firmly entrenched in some sort of cliché will they or won’t they thing the entire year. Mary Margaret attacked him.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“Well, not attack, so much as stole. They were both trying to get into the same class and Reese’s got the last seat. David tracked her down, broke into the system or something that was totally against the rules and he found us leaving the dining hall one night. Accused her of _stealing his spot_ and that he needed the class to meet some requirement and that was a complete lie because we were freshmen, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t let it drop. They kept running into each other. All over campus. He’d just be there, talking about the seat in the class and how she’d _robbed_ him and finally she had enough.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Reese’s talked to the professor, got him to comp David into the class just before the deadline and they sat next to each other for the rest of the semester. The rest, as they say, is romantic history. They’re going to get married at a castle.”

“Belvedere?”  
  
Emma pulled her head up, the end of her hair brushing across his chest. “How did you know that?”  
  
“We’ve been over this, Swan. I know everything.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“I grew up in New York. It’s kind of a famous thing.”  
  
“You’re like my own personal guide book.”  
  
He laughed again, hand pushing into her hair so he could tug her down to kiss him again and, eventually, they were going to have to get out of bed. He just couldn’t bring himself to consider more than the next few minutes or the idea of letting Emma leave his apartment and whatever bubble of calm they’d managed to create there.

“So,” Emma said, pulling herself away from him and ignoring his soft groan of indignation. “What you’re really telling me is that you’ve got a ridiculous amount of pillows on your bed because you’re trying to make it feel like home. Again.”  
  
Killian tried to not look as struck as he was and he knew it didn’t work as soon as he met Emma’s gaze, something in her eyes that was just a bit softer than usual. “It’s a slightly ridiculous habit, I know,” he mumbled.

“No, no, it’s not. It’s...it’s nice.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“Put a shirt on and I’d be able to come up with a few more adjectives I promise.”  
  
“Are you telling me, Swan, you can’t think straight when I don’t have a shirt on?”

She rolled her eyes, reaching forward to hit against his shoulder, but he was an athlete and there were reflexes and he caught her fingers before she could actually make contact, pulling her fingers up to run his lips over her knuckles.

Emma stared at her own hand, mouth parted just a bit like she was surprised and Killian found himself wondering, not for the first time, what had made her believe she needed the walls or why they needed to stay _under the radar_ or what had happened in Los Angeles that seemed to leave her just a bit bitter when she talked about castles in Central Park.

“Where did Liam and Elsa get married?” she asked suddenly, tugging her hand back. She kept it trained at her side, fingers flat against her thigh and not on his stomach.

“Downtown,” Killian answered. “Some ridiculously expensive loft that Banana picked out. There was a band. I gave a very bad speech. They make fun of it every Christmas.”  
  
“What could you have possibly said that was so bad?”   
  
“Oh no, it wasn’t like that, Swan. I just haven’t always been quite so well-spoken. And trying to impress an entire loft full of people wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse of talents at that point.”   
  
She laughed softly, head back on his shoulder and her hand moved cautiously until it found his, mindlessly tracing against the one scar that ran up towards his middle finger. “I can’t quite imagine you as anything except ridiculously confident.”   
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”   
  
“That’s how I meant it,” Emma promised. “Did they make you get up and dance too? Twirl some date around the floor?”   
  
“There was dancing. No date though.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Killian shrugged, fingers tapping out a slightly nervous rhythm on her hip – and now they were moving toward some fairly uncharted emotional territory for _him._  “I think you’re overestimating me quite a bit, Swan.”

“But,” she sputtered, pulling her head back up to look at him, disbelief written on every inch of her face. “You’re...well you.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And there are whole sections of the internet obsessed with your face.”

He made a face at her response, not entirely prepared for the incredulous look she kept giving him – as if she couldn’t quite believe he had hadn’t brought a fan to his brother’s wedding. Or, oh, well, that was disappointing.

She had an idea about him already – the fifth or the seventh wheel of the New York Rangers, depending on who he was being forced out with at any given time and hockey wasn’t the most popular sport in this city, but Emma was right, there was a whole section of the internet seemingly obsessed with his face.

There were always rumors.

None of them were true. He was far too focused on getting up early and getting out on the ice and being _ok_ and he didn’t have time for anything that wasn’t practice or drills.

Emma, however, didn’t appear to realize that, eyes darting down towards the tattoo on his forearm. She thought Milah was a fan.

Well, fuck.

“No, Swan,” Killian said, not entirely sure what he was disagreeing with. “I wouldn’t...that’s, that’s not me.”  
  
She still hadn’t moved her gaze, just nodded slowly and he could feel her take a deep breath against him. “I just figured with the set-up...and Will seemed awfully disappointed we weren’t…”  
  
“Well it was a lie, love.”  
  
“Yeah, but…”  
  
“No, Emma,” he said again and her eyes widened when he used her real name. “She wasn’t. She didn’t even really like hockey very much.”  
  
“Milah?”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, taking a deep breath as he sat up a bit straighter, Emma moving with him easily. “Milah,” he repeated softly and, if he were being honest, a bit reverently, the name sounding almost foreign on his lips. He tried not to say it. “It happened after I hurt Liam. He hadn’t even been discharged yet, could barely string a sentence together and they weren’t even sure if he ever would be able to at that point. And it was bad, Swan, I was, uh, bad. I left the hospital one night and El didn’t even try to stop me. We were already out of the playoffs, first-round loss that didn’t seem to matter much after Liam got hurt, so I went to a bar and drank. For hours. I thought I’d passed out when she started talking to me.

She knew who I was, but she wasn’t a fan. The first thing she told me was that she hated hockey and at that point I did too. She bought me my next drink. And I stopped drinking alone after that. She gave me her number and it took a week to drum up the courage to actually call, mostly because El said she wouldn’t let me in the hospital room again if I kept showing up looking like the world was about to end. She’s always been good at that, always known exactly what I was thinking. Sometimes even before I did.”  
  
“What happened when you called her?” Emma asked softly.

“She asked what took so long.” He laughed softly, but he didn’t run his hand through his hair, searching out Emma’s instead and he sighed when her fingers wrapped around his. “We didn’t really tell anyone, but they all knew. I didn’t scream at them as soon as they looked at me anymore and I started going to offseason workouts again and Robin stopped staring at me like some sort of wounded animal.

When the doctors told Liam he’d never be able to play again, when he had to announce he was retiring from a hospital bed, she came. She came to the hospital and she waited outside the door and I…” He shook his head slowly, blinking quickly like that would somehow get the memory out of his head. It didn’t. Even Milah hadn’t been able to get him to forget it.

He remembered every moment of that afternoon, how Liam had spoken slowly so he didn’t stutter over the words and how El’s fingers had shook in his and how Mrs. Vanklad had put both her hands on either side of Killian’s face and promised _this wasn’t his fault._

It was.

Emma didn’t move, was hardly even breathing anymore and they’d dived head first into the deep end of emotional.

He wanted her to know.

He kept talking.

“Liam knew after that,” Killian continued. “Asked about her when they finally released him from the hospital and I told him, some sort of proud _look at what I’ve found_ kind of conversation, like it was almost as good as him and El. And it was good. For months. She told me she didn’t hate hockey as much anymore and I was skating well and there were mutterings about the Hart and a _real_ run at the Cup. We were two weeks out of the playoffs when it happened.”  
  
Emma gasped softly and she was biting her lip again – he knew without even having to look at her. “Your hand,” she said slowly, thumb moving over another scar.

“I don’t remember much, but there was another car and a crash and they told me she was dead on impact.”  
  
“I didn’t know there was anyone else in the car.”  
  
“Not many people did. Or do.”  
  
Emma stared at him for a moment – like she was waiting for the next emotional bombshell and she looked a bit surprised when he didn’t move, like she was just waiting for him to push her away and that didn’t make any sense at all.

He’d told her because he _wanted_ to, needed her to understand. This wasn’t just...something. This was everything.

“I did,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes.

“Did what, Swan?”  
  
“Dated a fan. I mean it’s not quite the same because I’m not on the cover of the program or on the side of the Garden, but, well, I did.”  
  
“When?”

She shifted again, tongue moving across her lips before she twisted her mouth and considered her answer. “LA. A couple of months after I got there. He was in Starbucks and we started talking and he was nice and he smiled and…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It didn’t work. He said things and, well, they were all true, all of them, but he left too and…” Emma cut herself off, mouth clamping shut with an almost audible crack as her eyes looked anywhere except Killian. And he realized suddenly she’d never told him why she and the guy who took her job had actually broken up and he should have known from the get-go. They’d both left.

They’d left and then she’d been shoved out the door in Los Angeles and stumbled into _this_ and this team and he was already so in love with her, he was positive his head hadn’t stopped spinning in the last five weeks.

“Too?” Killian repeated and Emma nodded, a short, jerky movement that didn’t quite match up with everything he already knew about her.

“Neal,” she said. “His name was Neal and he had this great job and he knew about hockey and he travelled all over the country with the Preds and I’d never had anything like that. Reese’s and David were the romantic ones. They stared at each other like they understood the great questions of the universe when their eyes met and it never really felt like that with Neal, but I thought, maybe, it could have. If I let myself believe, if I trust him enough, then it would work.”  
  
“And you’d understand the great questions of the universe, too?”

“Exactly.”

She moved again, tugging on the ends of her hair as she twisted against the blankets, legs still tangled up with Killian’s. “I didn’t,” Emma continued. “Figure out the great questions of the universe. He got a job with the league and he settled into some sort of proper nine to five and he got mad when I wasn’t around and I didn’t travel much with Vancouver, so I was always stuck up there. So, one day, he just stopped calling and he stopped coming to Vancouver and that was that. He just left.”  
  
“Ass,” Killian muttered before he could stop himself and Emma laughed softly at the obvious frustration in his voice.

“Yeah, that’s what Reese’s said. And she, like, doesn’t believe in swearing. I don’t even know why he took my job or got my job. He claims he didn’t take it. He must have met Gold when he was working for the league, but I don’t know, it just seems like a step down.”  
  
Killian tensed underneath her – the mention of Gold and how this _guy,_ Neal, was somehow associated with him enough to warrant taking Emma’s job, making every one of his muscles constrict. “What?” Emma asked, glancing at him in confusion.

“Nothing, Swan, just, they’re all idiots in LA if they forced you out of your department or gave your job to anyone else. Last night proved it. It was perfect, love.”  
  
She made a face, scrunching her nose and scoffing under her breath and, eventually, he’d make sure she accepted compliments just a little easier. “I’m just glad the tents didn’t fall apart and Arthur’s speech wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been.”   
  
“Robin wasn’t lying. He’s much better with the fans than he is with his own team.”   
  
“Is that weird?”   
  
“Coaches are, by their very nature, weird people, Swan.”   
  
Emma laughed again, any concern at the way he’d reacted to Gold’s name gone and they’d seemingly survived _emotional_ fairly easily – she still hadn’t left. “I’ve had an idea about that, actually.”   
  
“About coaches?”   
  
“Well players acting as coaches.”   
  
Killian lifted one eyebrow – ignoring his buzzing phone and that was probably Robin or Scarlet or Liam, all intent to discuss last night’s game and why he hadn’t actually gone back uptown to get food. He hadn’t mentioned that to Emma, another _tradition_ he didn’t particularly care about, especially when her hands were in his hair and he’d been rather single-minded the night before.

“You going to answer that?” Emma asked, nodding towards the still vibrating phone.

“Nope. Tell me about your idea.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I was just thinking, the instructional thing went so well and the kids were so psyched and I swear, Henry only wants to text me so he can find out how you’re doing in practice, and maybe we could build on that.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“A charity game? Maybe before Casino Night? Or no, no, no, after Casino Night because then we could auction off things. Meet and greets and spots on the team and it could all go to GD and maybe a little extra to Henry’s house and we could get alums and maybe a few celebrity fans and I mean Bobby Flay loves the Rangers, right? You think Bobby Flay would be willing to play in a charity hockey game?”

“I’m sure Bobby Flay would do whatever you asked, Swan.”  
  
Emma sighed, but it sounded a bit like giving into the compliment and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, eyes following her hands as she started using them to aid in her explanation and her words started jumbling together a bit when her voice picked up.

She was excited – and even if it hadn’t been a good plan, he wouldn’t have been able to stop smiling, watching Emma’s eyes light up just a bit when she realized he was listening intently to every single part of her idea.

“You think that could work?” she asked.

“I know so.”  
  
“We’d need coaches.”

“You could get coaches.”  
  
“Would you coach?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes slightly and Emma looked taken aback – like she was bracing herself for the refusal. “Are you asking, love?”  
  
“Maybe.”

“I’ve never actually coached anything before, you know. You’re asking a complete novice to help with your very well-planned event.”  
  
“I literally just came up with half of it in bed.”  
  
“My bed,” Killian pointed out, moving back towards her until he was above her again and she was squirming against blankets and the few pillows they hadn’t pushed off the mattress yet. “You came up with half of it in my bed.”

“Was this a casual suggestion to get out of your bed?” Emma asked, voice tinged with something that probably could have been classified as a giggle when he started kissing just behind her ear.

“Not at all,” he mumbled, hissing in air when her hand moved first and he hadn’t entirely been prepared for that.

He could miss film. He could _absolutely_ miss film. Or at least be late for film. He’d only get fined. He could pay the fine.

Regina would kill him, but he could pay the fine.

And deal with Scarlet and Locksley when they asked where he was – again. And probably tell Liam and El. And he had another PT appointment that afternoon before they got on the plane and there were two away games ahead of him before he could get back in this bed – preferably this bed with Emma in it again.

He should have gotten up. He didn’t.

He kept kissing her and Emma’s hand kept moving and he tried to tell her something – probably something about how she couldn’t do that if they wanted to stay on the very specific path they seemed to be treading, but he couldn’t seem to remember any words.

It didn’t really matter.

Emma moved, hands on his shoulders and hair threatening to brush across his face and they both might have gasped at the contact when they met again, her head landing on his shoulder and his hand gripping her hip.

He was totally going to be late to film.

“Shouldn’t you be downtown?” Emma asked later, leaning back against his side. “Or, you know, like at least trying to get downtown?”  
  
“I’ve been a bit preoccupied, love.”  
  
“Reese’s is going to ask where I’ve been. Oh shit, I only have my dress.”

“I think there’s leggings in my closet,” he said without thinking. Emma just lifted her eyebrows and stared at him. “They’re Banana’s. She stays here whenever she ends up in New York. You can take a shirt too if you want.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Of course.”

Emma moved before he did, jumping out of bed and towards his closet, sheet wrapped around her shoulders and his heart might have stuttered under his ribs – or stopped completely. He only knew when it restarted, quicker and louder than usual. She found the leggings quickly and grabbed a t-shirt from the back corner of the closet, a Winter Classic hand-out he’d gotten when they played at Yankee Stadium a few months into his second season.

“The rest of my clothes are still by your door,” Emma said, nodding towards the hallway with a small smile on her face.

Killian shrugged. “Preoccupied.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, lip twisted in between her teeth as she moved back towards the living room and the bra he was still certain was sitting just a few feet away from his kitchen floor. Killian groaned slightly when he moved towards his, somehow, still vibrating phone to find a message from the entire platoon – Locksley, Scarlet, Liam, El and even Anna, who probably only knew what happened in the game because she’d gotten updates from El.

He ignored Locksley and Scarlet, both of them demanding to know where he’d been the night before, and focused on Liam’s messages.

**That was a hell of a pass, little brother. Tell Phillip the Rookie he should be grateful for a set-up like that.**

**I’m going to assume you’re still asleep, which doesn’t make any sense at all because you’re you.**

**Ok, either you’re dead or you’re already in film. If Scarlet got up this early for film you need to tell me because it’s some sort of modern-day miracle.**

_I am not in film._

**Did you die on the train downtown?**

_I’m not downtown either._

It took almost a full minute for Liam to respond.

**If I say ‘good’ does that make me a horrible influence on my little brother?**

_Younger brother. And that was the best pass I’ve ever made._

He didn’t wait for Liam’s response, tossing his phone on the mattress and grabbing a pair of shorts from the closet, walking back into the living room to find Emma sitting on the arm of the couch. She had her phone held lightly in her hand and a crease in between her eyebrows, staring at the screen like it had personally offended her.

“You alright, love?” he asked, making her jump slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she said quickly, but she was clutching her phone now and the crease in between her eyebrows hadn’t disappeared. “Reese’s thought I was dead. I guess David was halfway to the station to announce some sort of man-hunt on my behalf. I only just convinced her I wasn’t actually dead.”  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“That I’d gone uptown with the team and spent the night with Ruby.”  
  
“She won’t ask Ruby about that?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
The crease got a bit deeper and for all the emotional headway they’d taken that morning, they seemed to have taken a dozen steps backwards in those few moments when they’d, finally, gotten out of bed.

Fuck.

“They’ll fine you if you’re late for film,” Emma said, a picture of clinical indifference sitting on the edge of his couch in his clothes.

“I’m not worried about that.”  
  
“What are you worried about?”  
  
“You.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Tell that to your very narrowed eyes and tense shoulders.”  
  
She smiled slightly, but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders – if anything they got straighter, sitting up as if there was a hockey stick strapped to her spine. “I’m fine,” Emma said quickly. “I just...I’ve got to get back home. Or, well, to Reese’s at least.”  
  
The smile flashed again, not quite meeting her eyes and the walls were higher than they had been before, blocking out everything she was thinking or worried about and in the next few days, Killian would blame that for his desperation.

She pushed around him, muttering something about finding her heels and where the closest one train was and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her up short in front of him. “Emma,” he sighed. “Come on, talk to me.”  
  
“What about? People are going to know. They’re going to talk.”

“I don’t care.”  
  
“I do. We decided. Under the radar.”  
  
“Fine, Swan. That’s fine, but you can at least be comfortable here. You don’t have to worry about anything here.”  
  
“I’m not uncomfortable.” Killian eyed her meaningfully and she shifted her stance, chin jutted out a bit as she met his gaze.

“Why did you tell me about Milah?”  
  
“Why did you tell me about Neal?”  
  
Emma huffed, lips pressed together tightly and they’d run straight into _arguing_ far too quickly. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly. “This was supposed to be…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Easy.”  
  
“Is it not?”  
  
“Not if you’re sharing deep, dark secrets and people are talking and thinking the only reason I’m here is because Ruby got me the job and so I could fill some sort of role in your team’s ridiculous relationship circle.”  
  
“No one thinks that, Swan. I don’t think that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Of course not. I care about you. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.”  
  
“If you’re talking about last night…”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“What then?”

He took a shaky step forward, far too aware of what would happen if he said too much or didn’t say enough and it felt a bit like balancing on some sort of ridiculously sharp knife. She flinched when he tried to touch the back of her wrist and Killian barely suppressed his groan, closing his eyes lightly.

“You’re not just filling some sort of role in any sort of relationship circle,” Killian said slowly. “And if you want to keep doing under the radar, fine, they all believed us the other day when we promised there wasn’t anything going on. But I told you I cared and I do and I told you about Milah _because_ I care.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”

“I never thought I’d be able of letting go of her...of my Milah. I didn’t think that was possible. That’s why they tried for the set-up in the first place. I’ve been some sort of fifth and seventh and ninth wheel for the better part of the last five years. They were trying to help. Eventually I should probably thank them since they did.”  
  
“Did what?”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, throat tight and mouth dry, but the words felt simple when he said them. “I didn’t think there would ever be anyone else. That is, until I met you.”  
  
Emma didn’t say anything, phone falling out of her hand and clattering against the carpet under her feet and that wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. He’d at least hoped she’d say something back.

And, then, when she finally did, he wished he hadn’t heard her.

“I’ve got to go,” she said quickly, crouching to grab her phone and slip her feet into her heels and the door shook in its frame when she slammed it shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peaks out from behind the laptop. Still with me? I promise it'll get better - and soon. There is a lot of story left and a lot of season left and we always end happily in this corner of the fic world. We just kind of lose our skate edge sometimes. That was a really bad hockey joke. 
> 
> As always, I can't tell you guys how much I appreciate every click, comment and kudos. @laurenorder is the absolute best for reading all these words. Come flail (or yell at me) on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	15. Chapter 15

“What’s the matter with you?”

Emma didn’t even bother turning her head – just glancing at Ruby out of the corner of her eye as she shifted the pile of papers in her hand. Again. She must have moved them half a dozen times now, certain if she moved them the right way she’d be able to get rid of the knot of anxiety that had taken up root in the pit of her stomach over the last three days.

Three days.

She’d walked out of his apartment three days ago and they’d _talked_ three days ago and she was, still, an absolute mess. Even three days later.

It was because Mary Margaret had texted her, because she’d woken up on Saturday morning and Emma hadn’t been on the couch and she already knew before, had stared at her suspiciously in the suite during the game and it felt like it was all crashing down at once.

And Emma might have been the worst – the _worst_ – because she’d gotten the text message and the frantic phone call and David had the entire goddamn NYPD out looking for her and she did what she did best.

She ran.

She ran and she tried not to think about the look on Killian’s face when she did, something a bit worse than surprise and more jarring than disappointment. She couldn’t quite get that look out of her mind.

Even three days later.

Ruby was the only one brave enough to ask about it. Mary Margaret just looked at her like some sad, broken thing. David grumbled a bit, but he bought her new Pop Tarts anyway – and that might have almost made Emma bite her lip when she opened the cabinet that morning. That was just pitiful.

God. She’d told him Neal’s name. And Walsh. Well, not Walsh’s name. But she’d told him about Walsh and Los Angeles and what she thought when she looked at Mary Margaret and David. And he’d listened and he’d told her about Milah and he’d said...he’d looked at her like…

She didn’t know.

There wasn’t a word for it – or there wasn’t a word Emma was willing to acknowledge while sitting in a chair next to Ruby in Zelena’s office with a pile of papers in her hands and half a plan she’d come up with in Killian’s bed.

Five weeks. It had been five weeks. Five weeks and three days and maybe...maybe she was _insane._ Maybe he was insane.

You don’t just get to tell people things like that, you don’t just sit in bed with an absurd amount of decorative pillows and share absurdly personal information about foster families and lost loves and injuries that define your career as much as closing in on the top-five in points for the franchise.

He was the goddamn face of the franchise.

And he, apparently, hadn’t gotten the memo because Killian had talked and told and then held her like she was something _important_ and maybe not quite completely broken.

She absolutely was.

No wonder he hadn’t texted. Or called. Or done anything except get a negative-two rating on the ice the night before and Arthur had screamed when he actually cross-checked a Hurricanes player into the bench.

Emma tried not to overanalyze that and it had worked about as well as trying to forget the way he looked at her when she walked out of his apartment. Fuck, she still had his clothes. What was she going to do with a Winter Classic t-shirt from seven seasons ago?

“Em,” Ruby continued, leaning over the arm of the chair to smack his shoulder. “Are you even listening to me right now?”  
  
“Jeez,” Emma mumbled, shifting the pile of papers again so she could rub her shoulder. “What were you a boxer in another life? Relax.”   
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“What was the question?”   
  
Ruby sighed, staring at Emma with something that almost resembled disdain or maybe just a very particular form of frustration, and she rolled her eyes when Emma tapped her fingers on the papers again.

“What’s going on with you?”  
  
“That’s not what you asked before.”   
  
“Ah! So you were listening.”   
  
“And ignoring.”

“Well that’s just rude.”

Emma flashed Ruby a smile – possibly the first time she’d smiled in three days and that might have been the most melodramatic thing she’d ever thought in her entire life.

Ruby didn’t smile back.

She didn’t glare either or do that wolf-like thing that made the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stand up, certain Ruby could read her mind. She just stared at Emma and waited.

And then she groaned when Emma didn’t say anything.

Zelena walked into the office – heels sounding loudly on the carpet and Emma tried to refocus her energy on the conversation in front of her, the one about a charity hockey game and Garden of Dreams and anything that wasn’t Killian Jones.

Or Ruby’s continued stare. She kept staring at her.

“Alright,” Zelena said brusquely, sitting down on the edge of the chair behind her desk. “I’ve got,” she glanced down at the phone in her hand, “six minutes. Go.”  
  
“Jeez Z, relax,” Ruby muttered, earning her own glare for the comment. Emma tried not to smile at that. She was, apparently, feeling just a bit vindictive as well.

“What’s this great, big idea you’ve got then, Emma? You’ve got five and a half minutes now, by the way.”  
  
“Alright,” Emma said, shifting the papers again. “I want to organize a game.”   
  
“A game?”   
  
“A charity game. For GD.”   
  
Zelena stared at her, head tilted slightly to the side as she drummed her fingers across the top of her desk. She twisted her lips, glancing down at the pile of papers when Emma all but dropped them in front of her.

“What’s this?” Zelena asked.

“My plan.”  
  
“When did you even have the time to come up with this?”

Emma shrugged noncommittally, far too aware of Ruby’s eyes practically boring a hole into the side of her head. She’d come up with the first half of the idea in bed, with a very unclothed Killian Jones next to her, but she’d actually written it all out and researched and made _graphs_ – God, there were graphs – while doing her best to ignore every single other feeling she could possibly feel over the last three days.

It hadn’t really worked.

“I want to do this,” Emma said, far too aware that she hadn’t actually answered the question. “I think we can make this something really big.”  
  
“When?” Zelena continued.

She’d pulled the pile of papers and the _graphs_ towards her, flipping through the twenty-odd pages in front of her, humming when she got to potential dates and cost possibilities and there was a Saturday in March that, somehow, appeared to be free on the Garden schedule.

“March,” Emma answered. “Early March. Have it after Casino Night so that you can actually auction off things for the game. Get the season-tickets to spend some more money and you can have some meet and greets and maybe even a few on-ice moments.”  
  
“You’d probably need insurance for that,” Zelena mused, but one side of her mouth had pulled up and she might have been smiling.

It was kind of difficult to tell.

“Not for the players,” Ruby said rationally. “I bet Gina would be all over that for her guys. It’s a fantastic negotiating tool.”  
  
“And Jones is an FA.” Ruby nodded, eyes darting between Zelena and Emma with a – very obvious – smile on _her_ face. “Ok,” Zelena continued, staring intently at Emma. “I like the tie in with Casino Night.”   
  
“The season-tickets would be all over it,” Emma said, voice picking up the same way it had when she’d explained the idea to Killian. She tried not to think about that. And that didn’t really work either. “Make them pay to get into the game. Make them pay to meet some players. Make them pay to order food at the game. You could probably even get game-day merch.”

“You’re really intent on getting season-tickets to pay for things aren’t you?” Zelena asked, the threat of laughter inching into the question.

“They’ve got some money,” Emma shrugged.

“That’s true.”  
  
“Mix in some celebrities too. Bobby Flay, Justin Tuck, make Matt Harvey sign something.”   
  
“You don’t want to try and get Matt Harvey on skates too?”   
  
“Spring training.”   
  
“Ah, of course,” Zelena said, not even trying to stop herself from laughing that time. “Bobby Flay?”   
  
“He loves the Rangers.”

“What about the players?”

“What about them?”  
  
“Well you’ve thought of everything else,” Zelena shrugged. “What do you want to do with the players? Ruby’s right, Gina would probably love to get her guys out there. Push some sort of _community-first_ narrative. Jones especially. If you’re going to bring GD kids into this, we’ll have to get him out there anyway.”   
  
“I was thinking some of them could play, but Killian said…”

Emma cut herself off, eyes going wide when she realized what she’d _almost_ said and Ruby sat up just a bit straighter in the seat next to her.

Zelena didn’t seem particularly impressed with it, however, staring at Emma as she waited for her to continue.

“What about Jones?” she asked.   
  
“He said he’d coach. Or consider it.”   
  
“Consider it?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Zelena hummed in agreement, the ends of her mouth tugging down as she considered Killian’s consideration and that wasn’t really fair.

He’d agreed. Already. As soon as Emma almost asked it. Had she actually asked him? She couldn’t really remember.

All she could remember was the look on his face when she’d walked out of the apartment.

“That’s one coach,” Zelena continued and Ruby hadn’t blinked during this entire conversation. Emma was almost nervous about the status of her eyes. “What about the other side?”  
  
“Phillip the Rookie?”   
  
“Phillip the Rookie?”

“Face of the franchise against the up-and-comer and he’s, like, Killian’s biggest fan. We could market that like crazy.” Emma leaned forward, tapping her finger on the pile of papers half spread across Zelena’s desk. “That’s on page six.”  
  
“Game-day merch?” Zelena repeated, catching Emma off guard. She hadn’t expected to move backwards in the conversation.

“Put Phillip the Rookie and Killian on the same t-shirt and half the fandom will buy it solely based on their faces,” Ruby said easily. Her eyes narrowed when she noticed Emma’s shoulders shift, the slight way she pressed up against the back of the chair.

This conversation had lasted more than its five and a half allotted minutes.

“That’s a good point,” Zelena murmured, glancing back down at page six. “We’d have to bring some kids in too. And speaking of which, did you sneak a GD kid into the opener last week? Security was losing its collective mind about it.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and she was actually surprised this was the first time anybody had mentioned it.

Henry had texted her two days after that first practice with Killian and the team, updates on the house and the kid that had gotten adopted. And she hadn’t quite been prepared to be some eleven-year-old’s emotional rock or _whatever,_ but she’d seemed to settle into the role easier than she expected.

She asked if he wanted to come to the opener the day before – just a few hours removed from that _particular_ moment in the alley behind the restaurant – and he’d actually called to answer, screaming into the phone and making Emma wonder if her eardrums would ever actually recover.

“I didn’t sneak him in,” Emma said. “He came in through the gates like everyone else.”  
  
“But he’s a GD kid, right?” Zelena pressed, confusion pulling her eyebrows down low. “He came to practice?”   
  
“Yeah before Pittsburgh. He’s a huge Rangers fan.”

“He’s a huge Jones fan,” Ruby added, glancing meaningfully at Emma.

“Ah, well, aren’t we all?” Zelena mumbled. Emma rolled her eyes again, doing her best to actually take a deep breath.

“He’ll go nuts for something like this,” she said. “A ton of kids would. Tell Aurora to get whatever forms she has to and maybe we could even get a few of them out on the ice again.”

“The Tarrytown event did go really well.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“Early March?” Zelena repeated.

Emma nodded. “Before a playoff push.”  
  
“Awfully optimistic of you.”   
  
“This is the year or something. Whatever the guys say. What’s the PR-appropriate response in this situation, Rubes?”   
  
“We think we have a really strong roster and we’re confident in what we’ll be able to do on the ice this season,” Ruby answered immediately.

“As long as Jones stops acting like an idiot against the boards,” Zelena muttered. “He was a disaster last night. I actually thought Arthur was going to hit him with his own stick.”  
  
“Who knows what happened once they got back in the locker room,” Ruby laughed, glancing at Emma like it was the funniest joke in the entire world.

Emma didn’t move. She wasn’t convinced she was breathing much anymore and her phone hadn’t buzzed in three days.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine tonight,” Zelena said. “New Jersey’s a joke this season.”  
  
“That’s not the PR-appropriate answer.”   
  
“Don’t sell me out to the _Post_ then.”   
  
“Deal.”   
  
They laughed again and Emma still couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into her lungs, tongue tracing over her teeth as she tugged on the end of her hair. Ruby stared at her questioningly, but Zelena was quicker, shifting in her chair and moving the papers back into a small pile before handing them back to Emma.

“This is good,” she said. “Really good.”  
  
“Told you you’d be good at this,” Ruby muttered and Emma made a face. She didn’t need a cheerleader. She needed budget support.

And a distraction.

“So?” Emma asked. “Game on or whatever sports cliché you want to use?”  
  
Zelena smiled again as she stood up, heels somehow managing to click on the carpet as she walked back towards her office door. “Yeah, Emma, game on. I want a complete budget breakdown before they’re back here for the homestand later this week. Then we’ll talk to Jones and Phillip the Rookie and get Aurora’s opinion on whatever sort of insurance we have to get to make sure the GD kids get out on the ice.”  
  
“Yeah, sure.”   
  
Zelena was gone half a breath later, out the door and down the hallway and the sound of her ringing phone was barely audible when Emma stood back up, pointedly ignoring Ruby again. Her own phone still hadn’t made a single noise.

It took Ruby all of five seconds to catch up with her once Emma made it into the hallway, nearly tripping over her own feet and dropping her entire _plan_ on the floor when she felt fingers around her wrist, pulling her up short.

“Jeez, Ruby,” Emma mumbled, shaking her head to get her hair out of her eyes. “What’s your deal?”  
  
“I could ask you the same exact thing. Now, come on, answer my question.”   
  
“About the status of my deal?”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“I don’t even really know what you’re asking me.”   
  
“I asked you what the matter was about two thousand years ago and you told me you’d been ignoring me and I said that was rude and…”   
  
“Alright, alright,” Emma said, holding out her free hand to get Ruby to stop talking. “I don’t need the complete play-by-play.”   
  
“I’m worried.”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
Ruby nodded towards the stack of papers resting on Emma’s hip. “That’s fine? That’s a month’s worth of work and you did it in what...two days?”   
  
“Two and a half,” Emma muttered, scuffing her foot along the hallway floor.

“Ah, well, an eternity.”  
  
“It wasn’t that big of a deal. I just wanted to get it done.”   
  
“You’re some sort of community relations machine. Did you even watch the game on Sunday?”   
  
“Of course,” Emma said quickly and a bit sharper than she wanted. She wasn’t being entirely honest with herself.

Because if she were being entirely honest with herself, she should have texted _him_ or _called_ him and told him what a goddamn idiot she was because he’d told her something important – had told her a lot more than that – and she’d thrown it all back in his face.

Because if she were being entirely honest with herself, Emma might have actually been able to acknowledge that there was something to what Killian had said, something to believing him. And them – as some sort of collective unit.

“Jones played like garbage,” Ruby said conversationally. She didn’t back down when Emma shot her a very particular type of glare.

“I watched the game Rubes.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”   
  
“Is that what’s the matter with you? Or what’s going on with you?”   
  
“These are all very vague questions.”   
  
Ruby groaned, head thrown back in her obvious frustration. “Why are you making this so difficult? You’re all Emma’ing it up.”   
  
“Did you just use my name as a verb?”   
  
“Yes,” Ruby hissed, taking a step towards Emma and it all felt a bit threatening. “You’re being all you and I _know,_ I know something is going on.”   
  
“Nothing is going on.”  
  
“When did Jones say he would coach?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“When did he tell you he’d coach your game?” Ruby said, altering her question slightly like that would, somehow, make Emma want to answer it. “It’s got to be at some point in the last three days, right? So at some point, since Saturday, when this team left for Carolina, you’ve talked to Jones and told him about your charity hockey game idea.”   
  
Emma ignored the way her stomach flipped or possibly clenched, refusing to blink when Ruby stared at her, an accusatory look on her face. “These are all accurate facts, Rubes,” she said, shrugging as she shifted the papers in her hand again.

“You didn’t answer my question! Again!”  
  
“Saturday,” Emma snapped, frustration getting the better of her. “I told him on Saturday.”   
  
In bed. With no clothes on. After she’d told him about Neal. And he’d told her about Milah. And they’d done _whatever_ they’d done for the better part of the previous eight hours. They hadn’t really slept at all.

“You told him first.”  
  
“That’s not a question.” Ruby shrugged and Emma’s whole neck cracked when she rolled her head, frustration rolling off her in waves. “Did Reese’s talk to you or something?”   
  
“No,” Ruby said, surprise coloring the two letters. “Why? Should she?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“That was a lot of the same word right in a row,” Ruby muttered. “I’ve lost track of the conversation.”   
  
Emma laughed softly and some of the tension fell out of her shoulders. “I’m fine, Ruby,” she said and it was only a small lie. She was somewhere in the vicinity of fine, just a few steps away from almost coping. She just needed to plan a budget and make sure Killian Jones would still want to coach a charity hockey game she’d told him about first – which meant, eventually, she was going to have to talk to Killian Jones.

Idiot.

She was a goddamn idiot.

“Is this the part where I apologize for that set-up before?” Ruby asked, a small smile on her face as she tugged on the sleeve of Emma’s jacket. “I should have done it at the restaurant when Belle did, but you were kind of set in your _let’s not talk about it anymore._ ”  
  
“It’s ok,” Emma said.

“He’s a good guy and for whatever it’s worth he probably hates his friends as much as you hate yours, because they’re _always_ doing this. Have been for years.”   
  
Emma hummed in agreement, teeth tugging on the inside of her lip and her stomach was doing that _thing_ again. “He is a good guy,” she agreed, shifting on her feet as she tried to decide whether or not to ask the question sitting on the tip of her tongue.

“What?”  
  
“There wasn’t...in all those set-ups…”   
  
“Anyone that, what, stuck?” Emma nodded and Ruby shook her head quickly. “No, no, not even close. I think it almost became some sort of competition with Locksley and Scarlet, trying to see who they could find that would maybe get Jones to agree to the set-up. Even Gina tried last season, some friend from school who was some sort of _huge_ Rangers fan. He was less than interested in that. I think...well, there was something or someone, right before he got hurt, but I had only been here for a season or so and I didn’t really know him that well then.”

“And you do now?” Emma continued, curiosity outweighing that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she had _completely_ fucked up.

Ruby shrugged. “Better than I did then. That’s why I agreed to the set-up. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think you’d at least like him.”  
  
“He’s a good guy,” Emma repeated.

“Alright, alright,” Ruby sighed. “You don’t need to try and placate me. I heard you at the restaurant, all friends and everything. I’ll back off. I promise. And the game is a freaking fantastic idea by the way.”  
  
“I think we could do a lot for GD. Season-tickets will go nuts for that kind of stuff. All sorts of karma to be bought up.”   
  
Ruby stared at her knowingly, but she didn’t actually voice her opinions, didn’t say anything about how this all played into Emma’s past just a bit too perfectly or how she kept talking to Henry weeks after his GD event had wrapped.

That wasn’t exactly par for the course – or whatever the hockey equivalent of that particular sports cliché was.

“Relating to the community so well,” Ruby smiled, tugging on Emma’s sleeve again like some sort of PR-mother. “I knew you could do it.”  
  
“Tell me that when we actually budget a charity hockey game.”   
  
“Please, like I said, if you get Jones and Phillip the Rookie to coach this thing and put them on a t-shirt, it’ll sell like...hot cakes or something.”   
  
“Hot cakes? Are you a thousand years old?”   
  
“You’re, like, the rudest person in this building, you know that?”   
  
“I’ll save you a t-shirt,” Emma promised, grinning at a slightly put-out Ruby before walking back towards the bank of elevators at the other end of the hallway.

She had work to do.

* * *

Emma walked into the loft later that night, weighed down by another pile of papers – Merida proving to be some sort of research _machine_ when it came to finding out how previous charity games had run at the Garden – and there were numbers to crunch, or something that sounded less lame, and a game to watch and, maybe, text messages to be sent.

If she didn’t lose her nerve.

She’d probably lose her nerve.

Emma barely had time to consider the status of her nerves, however, running into an outstretched hand as soon as she closed the loft door behind her.

“Ah,” Mary Margaret gasped, jumping back and nearly spilling the contents of the two glasses in her hands. “Careful!”  
  
“What even, Reese’s? Were you just waiting behind the door the entire night?”   
  
“No,” she muttered, moving back towards the couch and putting the glasses on the coffee table in front of her – right next to the already-open bottle of wine.

“What is this?”  
  
“I wasn’t waiting behind the door all night.” Emma slid her shoes off, kicking them towards the small pile of footwear in the corner of the room and ignoring Mary Margaret’s soft tut when she didn’t put them back where they belonged. “Just, you know, since Merida texted me and let me know that you’d left work and weren’t going to the restaurant to watch the game. Again.”   
  
“Reese’s,” Emma said slowly, walking towards the couch and sinking into her designated corner. “Is this some sort of intervention?”   
  
“Of course not!”   
  
“What is it then?”   
  
“A conversation?”   
  
“That sounded a bit like a question.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you’re you. And you don’t do well when you’re backed into a corner.”   
  
Emma opened her mouth to argue, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to actually voice the words, not when Mary Margaret kept giving her _that_ look and the pre-game show was already on in the background, comments about Killian’s _concerning play_ the game before.

She took a deep breath, twisting her lips and reaching forward to grab one of the wine glasses in front of her. “That’s true,” Emma mumbled.

Mary Margaret eyed her cautiously, but she grabbed her own glass when she seemed to decide Emma wasn’t actually going to start shouting or tearing apart the couch. There were a lot of decorative pillows there as well.

“No questions?” Emma asked, glancing at Mary Margaret over the top of her glass.

“You tell me.”  
  
Emma shifted in the corner of the couch, tugging her legs up and glancing at the TV. The team was on the ice – announcers talking about the early-season hopes and whether or not Phillip the Rookie would be able to keep his spot on the first line, something about how his speed matched up with Killian’s and she was only really half listening. She tugged on her lip while she watched them go through warmups, shooting pucks towards a half-trying Jefferson and the camera zoomed in on Killian and Robin, leaning up against the boards with sticks in their hands and slightly tense looks on their face.

She sighed loud enough for Mary Margaret to hear her, tongue darting over her suddenly dry lips and Emma needed to tell _someone_ – certain her whole body was going to snap in half if she held any more stress in between her shoulder blades.

“I think I made a mistake,” Emma muttered quietly, downing half of her glass as soon as the words were out her mouth.

“About?”  
  
“So, uh, remember when I told you that nothing was going on and everything was all friendship and friends and just talking?” She rushed over the words, refusing to meet Mary Margaret’s presumably stunned gaze. “Well, that was kind of a lie. Or it was a lie. The biggest lie. Like in the history of the world.”   
  
Emma pulled her eyes up to find Mary Margaret staring her as if she’d never seen her before, mouth half open and wine glass barely upright as her grip slacked just a bit. “Wait, wait, are we talking about you and Killian?” Mary Margaret stuttered. Emma nodded. “What’s the opposite of friendship and friends and just talking?”   
  
“Not that. Or that plus other things.”   
  
“Other things.”   
  
“Reese’s.”   
  
“I’m confused.”   
  
“Think about it for two seconds. I, uh, I didn’t go to Ruby’s on Saturday.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes widened to what must have been dangerous proportions and Emma gulped the rest of her wine quickly. It felt like a boulder in her stomach. “You were with Killian?” she asked, whispering out the words.

“Yup.”  
  
“Doing what?”   
  
“Oh my God, Reese’s you did not just ask me that question.”

Her eyes, somehow, got even bigger – all brown and confused and there was not enough wine in the world to have this conversation. The game had already started.

“Ok,” Mary Margaret said quickly, setting down her untouched wine. Emma grabbed it immediately, ignoring the quiet reprimand she got for her actions. “So you left the game with him?” Emma nodded. “Where’d you go?”  
  
“His very fancy apartment on Amsterdam Ave.”   
  
Mary Margaret made a face, looking impressed that the captain of the New York Rangers could afford an apartment on Amsterdam Avenue. “And?”   
  
“And what, Reese’s? I stayed.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
She still couldn’t quite rationalize that – three days of radio silence and no fun facts about Carolina, either North or South, and Emma still couldn’t quite understand why she’d stayed. That wasn’t her move.

She left.

She walked away before she could wake up to find an arm still wrapped around her waist or a voice in her ear and _she’d_ been the one to suggest they not even try to fall back asleep when they’d woken up far too early.

He’d probably been late to film.

She didn’t know. They hadn’t talked in three days.

“Why?” Mary Margaret pressed.

“I wanted to.”  
  
There it was – the truth, as much as three words could be some sort of overwhelming, deep-set type of truth. Emma had wanted and she wanted him and she wanted to stay and she wished he’d text her so they could decide if they were actually using _boyfriend_ and _girlfriend_ in some sort of high-school nonsense that might be kind of nice.

She glanced back up at the TV when she heard the whistles.

He’d gotten a penalty –  _another_ penalty – and Arthur was screaming on the bench and Killian was halfway to the box by the time they showed a replay. It was another crosscheck, the same move he’d used in Carolina and Emma wondered where he’d learned _that,_ able to get his stick just underneath pads in a way that could only hurt like hell.

“Like you wanted to kiss him,” Mary Margaret pointed out and that was hardly fair because one person shouldn’t be able to know Emma that well.  
  
Or be able to call her out that well.

“Has this been happening the whole time?”

“The staying at his apartment?” Emma asked. Mary Margaret nodded. “No, no, that didn’t happen until the opener. Yes to the kissing though. Like a, frankly, ridiculous amount of kissing.”  
  
Mary Margaret smiled at that – a romantic at heart who couldn't quite seem to keep her features neutral when the possibility of Emma being _happy_ was concerned. “So you go home with him on Friday and scare me to death and what happens next?”   
  
“Nothing,” Emma answered quickly, eyes darting back towards the screen when Killian came racing out of the box, nearly connecting on a breakaway when Phillip the Rookie set him up in the neutral zone.

Almost.

She tried not to read in that too much.

“Nothing?” Mary Margaret repeated, voice catching just a bit on that one word. “Oh my God, Emma. Did you leave?”

“Like as soon as I got your text. And voicemail. And David’s text. I hadn’t seen it before. My phone was with my dress.”  
  
“Was your dress not with you?”

“My dress spent the night in the living room.”  
  
Mary Margaret let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a scoff and Emma’s head whipped around when she heard the buzz of the goal signal, breath catching in her throat when she saw Killian’s hands in the air.

“I’ve got to ask you another question,” Mary Margaret said, distracting Emma from the replay and the rebound had landed on Killian’s stick almost perfectly. He barely even had to move his stick – it was almost too easy.

“Go for it.”  
  
“If you spent the night, if you went in the first place and you guys have been doing a ridiculous amount of kissing since that first kiss, why would you leave? Was it bad?”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“It’s an honest question.”   
  
“No,” Emma said sharply. “No. It was...the opposite of that. It was...overwhelming.”   
  
“That’s not really your thing.”   
  
“I told him about Neal.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s whole body sagged forward, breath rushing out of her quickly and loudly and Emma tried to look like this was _fine._ “That’s big, Emma.”   
  
“I know. I _know._ I think we’ve been dating for the last two weeks.”  
  
She didn’t tell Mary Margaret about Milah or what had happened in that car or what Killian had said before she’d practically sprinted out of the apartment, the enormous space suddenly feeling like a straight jacket. She didn’t think she could.

That was Killian’s story.

“You think?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Well we haven’t really talked since Saturday.”  
  
Mary Margaret made a face, unable to completely mask her sigh at Emma’s complete inability to be a human with actual, functioning emotions. “You still didn’t answer my question. Why did you leave? Because I was worried about you?”   
  
Emma considered her answer – trying to find the words she hadn’t been able to quite decide on in the last three days. “Pillows,” she said after what felt like a decade of silence right there on the couch.

“What?”  
  
“He had a ridiculous amount of pillows on his bed.”   
  
“And that made you freak out?”   
  
“His mom, foster mom, whatever, used to have pillows. Everywhere, he said, and it was like some sort of _home_ for him and so now he’s rich and famous and the captain of the New York Rangers and he’s got all these pillows and they do this ridiculous ritual before the season opener and Locksley and Scarlet still talk to his brother. They all talk to each other and his sisters and it’s just…”   
  
Home.

He had a home.

And Emma had a couch.

She didn’t have pillows. She’d never had pillows.

This metaphor was ridiculous.

Mary Margaret had that look on her face again. “Oh, Emma,” she muttered, reaching out to wrap her fingers around Emma’s wrist.

“And then you were worried and we’ve been doing this _under the radar_ thing and you knew. Or you would know and I hadn’t really thought about it the night before, I just wanted.”   
  
“You’re allowed to want things.”

“Not like this.”  
  
Emma bit her lip tightly, words feeling almost heavy when she said them and they seemed to almost visibly hang in the air as Mary Margaret kept her fingers wrapped around her wrist. “He’s got people, Reese’s,” Emma continued. “A family.”   
  
“You could have that too.”   
  
She blinked once, a bit stunned at how easily Mary Margaret had rationalized everything in a few words and one sentence and her whole face had shifted as soon as she promised Emma, smiling at her with a determination that simply couldn’t be questioned.

Mary Margaret got what she wanted.

And she’d make sure everyone else got what they wanted along the way.

“You make it all sound very easy,” Emma muttered. She was out of wine again and the period was almost over. They were winning.

“There’s no reason it couldn’t be.”  
  
“I walked out.”   
  
“So apologize for that.”   
  
“People are going to talk.”   
  
“So keep doing whatever under the radar thing you’re doing now. I won’t sell you out to Page Six or anything.”   
  
“No David?”   
  
“No David,” Mary Margaret promised and Emma was half a second away from actually crying in the corner of the couch, a wave of emotion and _something_ that might have been an almost kind of family hitting her suddenly. She was a mess.

“Is he really going to coach your charity game?” May Margaret asked.

“How could you possibly know about that?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “Zelena told Aurora who told Regina and I guess Ariel was nearby? It was like a whole ridiculous string of gossip.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“You don’t have to worry, Emma. I know you will because you’re you, but I’ve got a good feeling about this.”   
  
“How do you always do that?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Know exactly what to say in order to make me believe things. You always get me to believe things.”   
  
“Actual years of practice,” Mary Margaret laughed, squeezing Emma’s hand tightly. “And you’ve had a very specific look on your face for the last few weeks. I _knew_ something was going on. I’m a genius.”

Emma groaned, rolling her eyes, but she was smiling and she knew Mary Margaret was right. She was happy – or had been happy or maybe could be happy again. If she could get up the courage to text him.

That was proving a bit more difficult when she couldn’t exactly take a deep breath.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret said quickly, leaning forward as if she had some sort of sixth sense for when Emma was feeling particularly terrified or prone to emotional breakdowns in the corner of the couch. “It’s going to be ok. I’m sure he’ll understand.”  
  
“How? We kind of dove face-first into emotions and he was…” Everything? Fantastic? Staring at her like he might actually care as much as he promised? All of those things sounded absurd. They were all true. “I walked out.”   
  
“So explain why you did.” Emma eyed her meaningfully and Mary Margaret’s head fell to the side, landing almost audibly on her shoulder. “Alright, so don’t tell him the _whole_ thing, but tell him some of the things. Or, I don’t know, wear his jersey again.”   
  
Emma groaned, dimly aware of the start of the second period. “This team is the worst.”   
  
“No it’s not. And neither are you, so stop thinking that you are. He’ll understand.”   
  
“You seem awfully certain.”   
  
“Nothing is ever certain,” Mary Margaret said and that didn’t do much to help the knot of anxiety in the pit of Emma’s stomach. “But even believing in the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing.”

Mary Margaret smiled at her – certainty and positivity and the force of the the entire goddamn sun all contained in a single look – and Emma found herself wanting to believe. She grabbed her phone out of her back pocket, pushing up slightly in the corner of the couch to stare at the screen like it held the answers to all the questions of the universe.

**The New Jersey Devils name was selected as part of a newspaper contest, but it was based on the Jersey Devil, which is reported to have lived in the Pine Barrens. He was a monster. Thirteenth son. Totally the worst.**

* * *

She was almost asleep when her phone vibrated, the sound echoing in her ears just under the pillow she had propped up against the arm of Mary Margaret’s couch.

They’d won.

A bounceback victory of the highest order – at least according to the MSG announcers who promised that Killian Jones had, obviously, put his less-than-impressive second game of the season in the metaphorical rearview mirror.

He’d scored again and assisted on Robin’s empty-netter and he’d been first star. She’d smiled at that.

_I didn’t know that, Swan._

Emma bit her lip and she blinked blearily at the screen, the only light in Mary Margaret’s pitch-black living room.

**I thought you knew everything.**

_Not quite so much anymore._

She pressed her teeth down until it actually hurt, certain she was going to push through her entire lip and she could actually taste blood in her mouth.

**First star. That second goal was ridiculous.**

_Thanks._

**The announcers were going nuts. And you almost had the hat trick if the shot after the penalty had gone in.**

He didn’t answer and Emma didn’t really sleep again, the knot of _whatever_ in the pit of her stomach making it difficult to do anything except stare at the ceilings and come up with all the reasons why she was the absolute worst.

She’d totally fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello angst, my old friend. It's been awhile. We won't live in this angst-ridden world forever, but we've still got a bit more road trip and Killian's POV and he's got a good chunk of advice coming his way too. I can't thank you guys enough for continuing to be fantastic and incredible and there is just...so much story left. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes all of this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	16. Chapter 16

He’d totally fucked up.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have stayed quiet and pulled her phone out of her hand and they could have come up with some sort of explanation for where she’d been on Friday night and why he was late for film on Saturday morning and it would have been totally fine.

Everything would have been fine.

She probably would have texted him about the Hurricanes on Sunday then.

She hadn’t.

And he hadn’t texted her anything about Carolina – North or South and he had facts about _both_ because Liam was the absolute worst – and he’d played like absolute shit in Carolina, a boarding penalty that might have actually cost them the game and left him facing some sort of other-level anger from Arthur.

He’d never seen Arthur that angry.

Killian had never been that angry. Or that stupid. He’d probably get fined for that too. The phone call from Regina was inevitable. He probably already had five voicemails and, at least, four of them were from Regina.

That kind of shit didn’t fly during a free agency season.

It did, however, help him forget – at least for the few moments when he’d knocked another human being halfway into his bench.

And then he’d spent five minutes in the box and all he’d done was think. He thought about the way her entire face dropped when he promised _until now,_ the noise of her phone hitting his carpet sounding like a boulder falling off a cliff or a meteor crashing into Earth and he was a melodramatic fool.

She still had his shirt.

She still had Anna’s leggings. He’d absolutely fucked up and the Hurricanes scored with twenty-four seconds left in his penalty and Will had called him a _fucking asshole_ while they walked down the tunnel after the game.

He absolutely was.

“She’s called me three times,” Robin said, falling into the seat next to Killian unceremoniously and pushing his arm off the divider between them.

“There are two armrests here,” Killian grumbled, knocking his shoulder against Robin’s. “You don’t have to take up both of them.”  
  
“Yeah, well, when you’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes listening to all the reasons why you’re going to lose your max deal because you nearly lacerated some guy’s gall bladder tonight, you can have your armrest back.”  
  
Killian groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and they must have been somewhere over Virginia by now, the middle of the night in the middle of the sky and he was almost surprised the weight of his guilt didn’t actually drag the plane down.

“Three times?” he asked, chancing a glance at Robin out of the corner of his eye.

“She’s called you four times, which, you know, whatever, I’m not married to her or anything. She’s a little frustrated you haven’t answered.”  
  
He tugged his phone out of his pocket and hit the home button impatiently, ignoring Robin’s quiet scoff at the movement. There were six voicemails, three text messages and one particularly _adorable_ snapchat with the twins in his jersey, matching looks of disappointment on their faces with a caption that read: _Angry that Uncle Killian cost us the game. Considering picking a new favorite player._

He didn’t respond. Or listen to the voicemails. Or even open the text messages, shoulders sagging just a bit when he didn’t see a _Swan_ in any of them.

Robin made a noise with his tongue. “I don’t need your disapproval,” Killian muttered, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and seizing back control of his designated armrest. “Come on, shut up anyway. It’s late.”  
  
“What are you, like eight hundred years old, now?”  
  
“No, but I’m tired and I’m not particularly interested in you going all dad-mode on me in the middle of this flight.”  
  
“It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to go.”  
  
“Don’t test that theory.”  
  
Robin stared at him speculatively and Killian rolled his eyes – far too aware that he’d been called out on his bluff. They were, after all, on a plane, likely somewhere over the middle of Virginia.

“You’re not going to answer any of those, then?” Robin continued, ignoring the very obvious frustration Killian was certain would never actually leave his face. “And when did El learn how to Snapchat?”  
  
“It’s a government thing.”  
  
“The state of Colorado is interested in Snapchat?”  
  
“If it gets voters or something. I don’t know, you’d have to ask her.”  
  
“How millennial of her,” Robin laughed, shifting in his seat again until he pushed his legs out and now they were apparently fighting for extra leg room in addition to the armrest. “Come on, you’re really not going to answer? Gina’s going to kill me. She’s kind of pissed.”  
  
“That’s why I’m not going to answer. I don’t need a lecture from her either or for her to use your kid as some sort of bargaining chip to make me feel any shittier than I already do.”

He’d said too much – he knew as soon as Robin’s eyes widened slightly, mouth opening in something that looked a bit like victory and Killian ran his hand over his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks.

Goddamnit.

“Shitty about the game?” Robin asked, but there was something in his voice that made it almost painfully obvious they weren’t talking about five-minute boarding penalties anymore.

“Sure.”  
  
“Cap.”  
  
“You don’t need to pull out the nicknames,” Killian sighed. “And I do feel shitty about the game. Arthur looked almost murderous in the locker room.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s because Carolina’s locker room sucks.”  
  
“Look who’s not having a serious conversation anymore.”  
  
Robin chuckled softly, smile tugging on the edge of his mouth and Killian almost felt that boulder-sized web of anxiety and worry and general _shittiness_ that he’d felt since Emma walked out his door, start to dissipate just a little bit. He shouldn’t have said anything.

This was supposed to be easy.

They were supposed to be easy, fun, _under the radar._ And he’d absolutely tripped over his own feet, crashed onto the metaphorical ice that was, apparently, his life and missed the breakaway shot wide right.

He loved her. He needed to relax.

That kind of thing didn’t just _happen_ – not again, at least, not for him, the guy who’d fucked everything up and ended his brother’s career, the seventh-wheel of the New York Rangers who didn’t deserve any more than he got.

Killian Jones did not deserve Emma Swan. He was certain of it.

Robin glared at him, head flopping against his shoulder almost audibly. “You know you could at least text one of them back,” he said. “Let them know you haven’t completely lost your mind in the last couple of days.”  
  
“They know I haven’t.”

“Ehhhhh I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Arthur actually asked me what happened between the opener and now.”  
  
He wished they weren’t somewhere over Virginia. He wished they were anywhere else. Or anywhere that wasn’t a plane without an actual exit. There wasn’t anywhere for Killian to go – and Robin knew it.

He had him trapped.

“Aren’t we supposed to turn our phones off once we’re in the air?” Killian asked. “Those are the rules or we’ll all crash down over Virginia or something.”  
  
“Are we flying over Virginia?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea.”  
  
Robin stared at him meaningfully and Killian desperately tried to find a way out of this conversation. There wasn’t one.

The silence stretched out in front of them until it felt almost palpable and tense and it hadn’t ever really been like that with Robin. They’d gotten on the ice and put on the same line and they’d always been able to _read_ each other and it had set up some sort of partnership that defied assist-to-goal ratio expectations.

“You hit that guy pretty hard,” Robin muttered after what felt like an eon. “You’ll probably get fined.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“Good technique though.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, drawing a bitter _shut the hell up, Jones_ out of Will on the other side of the aisle. “I’ve had it done to me enough times,” he laughed. “I know how to check someone.”  
  
“Kill them more likely.”

“He wasn’t dead.”  
  
“He’s going to be bruised for the rest of his life.”

He scoffed, but Robin was probably right and he’d hit the guy pretty hard, some sad attempt at trying to work out frustration that didn’t have anything to do with the guy or how often Killian had been hit against the boards when he was a kid.

He should probably text someone. He should probably text Emma. He was vaguely terrified to do both.

“It’s a dangerous sport,” Killian mumbled, a sad excuse for an excuse. He should have pretended to be asleep before.

“Yeah, dangerous to your wallet.”  
  
“That’s the lamest thing you’ve ever said in your entire life.”  
  
Robin rolled his eyes, but he shrugged slightly and that was as much of an agreement as Killian was going to get. “Why were you late?”  
  
“When?  
  
The question earned him another eye roll and Killian sighed with all the drama he could muster. He heard the footsteps before he saw her hair, bright red even in the dim lights of the plane, and he should have expected her even before Robin. And Robin had sat next to him on every single road trip for the last seven years.

Ariel pushed in front of them ignoring his quiet murmurings of _there’s only two seats here, Red,_ knocking her knuckles across his shoulder until he shifted back against the rough fabric of the chair. She perched herself on the tiny bit of seat Killian wasn’t already occupying and leveled him with a very specific type of stare.

“We start yet?” Ariel asked.

Killian glared at Robin who tried to hold his hands up in mock surrender, but Ariel just shot him the same look she’d given Killian and he snapped his mouth shut immediately. “You know that guy could have cracked his ribs,” Ariel said.

“Did he?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then he’s fine. And how would you even know that? It’s not like you were hanging out in the Carolina locker room.”  
  
“I have eyes, Killian. You hit that guy like you were trying to kill him.”  
  
“You’ve got to get to these interventions earlier, Red. Robin’s already informed me that I almost murdered a guy on the ice tonight.”  
  
Ariel glared at him again, but he didn’t back down – frustration creeping back into his veins and his muscles and his absurdly tense shoulders. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Why?” Ariel asked.

“Why what?” Killian countered and she rolled her body back so far back her head nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Don’t even try it, A,” Robin muttered, making sure to get in one more eye roll for good measure. “He’s not going to say anything. He’s been infuriatingly quiet all night. He’s not even worried about the fine.”  
  
“You’re totally going to get fined.”  
  
“I’m well aware I’m going to get fined,” Killian sighed.

“And fined for being late to film.”

“That too.”  
  
“Why were you late to film?”  
  
“And,” Robin added, sitting up a bit straighter. “Why didn’t you come up for food after the game? You disappeared.”  
  
Ariel shifted in her seat –  _Killian’s_ seat – tugging on his league-mandated tie until she nearly choked him right there in the air somewhere over Virginia. “Honestly,” she said, emphasizing each syllable with a tug. “Are you eating? You don’t look like you’re eating.”  
  
“I know how to feed myself,” Killian argued. “Just because your husband isn’t the one doing it on a consistent basis anymore does not mean that I’m not eating. I wouldn’t be able to skate otherwise.”  
  
“Or almost kill people in Carolina.”  
  
“That too.”

Ariel waited for more – an explanation she absolutely wasn’t going to get and she huffed slightly when she realized he wasn’t going to say anything. “You’re being very annoying you know.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
She tugged on his tie again, like that would somehow get him to start talking about why he hadn’t shown up at the restaurant or why he’d boarded a guy to within an inch of his life or refused to answer any of his text messages. It didn’t.

This time, Killian didn’t say anything and, somehow, it didn’t do much to make him feel any better.

Ariel sighed softly, a slightly disappointed smile on her face, but she didn’t demand any more answers and Robin didn’t roll his eyes again or mention the three phone calls he’d gotten from Regina demanding to talk to Killian. Instead, Ariel just burrowed into the few millimeters of seat Killian had been willing to give up, pushing up both of the armrests in between her and Robin and muttered something that sounded like _get me a blanket, Locksley._

He did. And he didn’t move the armrests back.

And the picture of the three of them – Ariel wrapped in her demanded blanket with her head on Killian’s shoulder and her feet pulled up on Robin’s knees got a ridiculous amount of likes as soon as Will posted it on Instagram later that night.

* * *

“Turn your goddamn phone off, fuck.”

Killian barely lifted his head off the pillow, keeping his eyes closed as he fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. He only managed to knock it over.

It didn’t stop ringing.

It just seemed to get louder.

They’d been in New Jersey for less than a day – Arthur practically seething when they got off the plane and threatening a walk-through and sprints that would last forever and it was the middle of the night. Ariel told him it was his fault.

It was absolutely his fault.

“Goddamnit Jones,” Robin mumbled, voice scratchy and he was still half asleep. “Turn the phone off.”  
  
Killian grumbled in response, tugging the hotel-provided sheets with him as he scanned the floor to find his, somehow, still-ringing phone. It stopped ringing before he could make it the few feet it had managed to bounce when it fell off the nightstand and _dinged_ almost immediately, another voicemail that he’d probably have to listen to this time.

He couldn’t ignore them forever.

“It was going to go off soon anyway,” Killian said, ignoring the way Robin had started actually punching his pillow in frustration at the unwanted noise. “Or at least the wakeup call was. You’ve only got like a half an hour until we had to get ready for morning skate.”  
  
“It’s that half hour that I’m worried about. It’s game day. There are rules.”  
  
There were rules.

They’d started the tradition – _another_ tradition – the season after Liam had gotten hurt, Robin stepping into that _brother_ role with ease.

It was probably bad luck to alter the schedule and that made him wonder who had called half an hour before their designated wakeup call. El. It was El.

“Who even was that?” Robin continued, words muffled just a bit by the pillow he’d stuffed his face in. He was worse than Liam. “They all know the rules.”  
  
“El,” Killian answered immediately, phone held loosely in his hand as he ignored the rush of nerves that shot through every single inch of his body when he stared at the message on his phone screen.

Robin sat up at that, twisting his bedding around his waist when he glanced at Killian. El knew about the schedule. She wouldn’t call unless it was something important. “Call her back,” he said.

Killian nodded, grabbing his wallet off the nightstand and he didn’t even bother putting on socks or shoes, a walking billboard for the New York Rangers when he stepped into the hallway and sank against the wall just next to their room door.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey KJ,” Elsa said brightly, as if it wasn’t a half an hour before the wakeup call on a game day and she didn’t live in Colorado with different timezones that were decidedly earlier than they were in New Jersey.

“Hey?” Killian repeated, dragging his hand through his hair so he wouldn’t accidently flex his fingers the wrong way. He didn’t need another intervention on the ride back to New York and the team busses had even less seat space than the plane did.

“What’s going on?”  
  
“Are you kidding me, El?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s a half an hour before wakeup call and that means it’s practically the middle of the night in Colorado. Are you dead?”  
  
“It’s not the middle of the night in Colorado,” Elsa said reasonably, falling into _mom_ voice with an ease that made Killian blink several times. He flexed his hand and if she heard him wince softly in the phone, she didn’t actually say anything. “It’s like five in the morning. That’s like daybreak if you want to get technical.”  
  
“I don’t want to get technical.”  
  
“You ok?”  
  
“Are you really asking me that? El, it’s five in the morning where you are and you know the schedule. Locksley nearly murdered me when my phone went off.”  
  
“I didn’t think your phone would even be on. You’re usually better at that, silent as soon as you walk in the door.”

That was true and Killian gave himself half a moment to be impressed by how _well_ Elsa seemed to know him, no matter what time it was. Then he got worried – again.

“If you didn’t think I would answer, why did you call?” he asked, doing the best to keep the accusation out of his voice. It didn’t really work.

And he might have actually been able to _see_ Elsa shrug.

“Just wanted to talk,” she said.

“About?”

“Whatever you want.”  
  
“El,” Killian sighed, resting his head back against the wall. “Come on, don’t play that. What’s going on?”  
  
She sighed softly, but clicked her tongue and he could hear her moving, a door shut quietly behind her as she started walking. “Nothing,” she said after an inexcusably long amount of time.

“You’re a horrible liar.”  
  
“I am a fantastic liar. You don’t know everything about me, KJ.”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“Shut up.”

And it might have been the first time all weekend he’d genuinely smiled – a particularly depressing thought in the middle of some hotel hallway in Newark – but that had always been Elsa’s job, at least when it came to him. Killian was like some sort of happiness-based project for Elsa, determined to make sure he felt at _home_ in the brownstone even when he was being a very particular brand of stubborn asshole.

He should probably thank her at some point.

She was some sort of impossible force and there was a reason she had so many degrees hanging on her office wall.

Elsa Vankald-Jones would probably become mayor of New York City at some point. Or president of the universe, whichever came first.

And he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him.

“So,” Elsa said suddenly, as if she’d just remembered she wanted to make a point in this very early conversation. “You going to kill anybody on the ice tonight?”  
  
“I wish everyone would stop using that word. I hardly killed him. I hit him. People hit other people in hockey, that’s kind of the way it works.”

“And you hit that guy like you wanted to kill him. How badly did you get fined?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Killian sighed. “Weekends, no one from the office probably wanted to review it. I’ll get something today, I’m sure.”  
  
“Been a banner week for you and your bank account.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“You were late for film.”  
  
Killian closed his eyes lightly, biting back his immediate frustration. “How’d you find out?”  
  
“You told Liam.”  
  
Oh. He’d forgotten that. He had. He’d told him he wasn’t downtown and wasn’t on his way downtown and it all felt a little bit like déjà vu, bragging about a relationship that wasn’t really a relationship and was she even his girlfriend? Had they settled on that terminology? Probably not.

He’d just blurted out declarations of _feeling_ in the middle of his living room and Emma walked out wearing his t-shirt and his sister’s leggings.

Three days later and he still hadn't said anything. She hadn’t either. They were playing some sort of relationship chicken and Killian was almost dreading going back to New York, not entirely certain what kind of reception he’d get.

Or if he’d even get any sort of reception at all.

What a depressing ass.

“KJ,” Elsa said softly, jerking him out of his thoughts and nearly making him hit his head against the wall again.

“Yeah.”  
  
“You’re not telling me something. And you definitely tried to kill that guy. Or wanted to kill that guy and…”  
  
“And what, El,” he interrupted. It was far too early for this conversation. He needed to have this conversation on skates with a stick in his hand so he could break something. He’d kind of wanted to break several things for the last three days.

“You can tell me if you want,” she said, hardly changing her tone. “You should probably tell somebody.”  
  
“We’re supposed to be under the radar.” Elsa couldn’t quite mask her gasp and Killian couldn’t quite take a deep breath. Those two things seemed to match up. “Alright,” he said pointedly, rolling his shoulders. “Remember when I said there wasn’t really anything going on and ignored your questions and everything?”  
  
“You’ve been ignoring my phone calls all season.”  
  
“There was a reason for that.”  
  
Elsa gasped again, a bit louder that time and he heard the couch creak just a bit when she shifted on the cushions. “Come on, you’ve got to actually tell me.”  
  
“I’ve been lying for the better part of the last five weeks.”  
  
“Five weeks?” Elsa repeated, voice catching just a bit on the words. Killian nodded, well aware she couldn’t see him. It didn’t matter. She totally know. “That was...that was the practice facility wasn’t it?”  
  
“You’re some kind of dates witch.”  
  
“When you were late for film...you were…”  
  
“You have kids, El.”  
  
“Oh my God, KJ.”  
  
He waved his hand through the air, shaking his head quickly. “No, no, take a step back,” Killian muttered. “I, uh, I think I made a mistake.”  
  
“How? Was it…”  
  
“El, Jesus. No.”

“Well, I don’t know. You’re not actually telling me anything.”  
  
“Because we’re doing this under the radar thing. No one else knows.”  
  
Elsa clicked her tongue and scoffed under her breath. “Please, everyone knows. Or at least suspects. You need to figure out what the definition of under the radar is because it’s not showing up in your number at the restaurant two nights before the opener.”  
  
“I think that’s just you,” Killian argued, refusing to acknowledge the return appearance of that knot of anxiety in the bottom of his stomach. If they were done or he’d fucked this up irreparably or _whatever,_ he’d at least make sure of one thing – no one was going to know and Emma wouldn’t have anything to regret.

At least he hoped not.

“What happened, KJ?” Elsa asked, voice just a bit softer than he expected.

“Well you’ve already figured out some of it.”  
  
“But you were late for film. That was the next morning.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, El?”  
  
“You said you made a mistake. What was the mistake?”  
  
He took a deep breath, shoulders sagging with the weight of that same mistake because he hadn’t quite been able to get the look on her face out of his mind for the last three days. He couldn’t quite forget the way her eyes had widened the way they did when she got surprised, all green and questioning and emotional as he told her about Milah and after Milah and she’d told him about Neal.

She talked back.

And that might have been the most confusing part of it it all – they’d been on even footing, they’d been talking and...not talking and she smiled at him like she couldn’t quite believe he’d listened or wanted nearly as much as he did.

She’d left anyway.

“I told her about Milah,” Killian said softly, half convinced that every single one of his muscles had tensed when he spoke.

“What?”

“Exactly what those words mean, El,” he snapped, groaning slightly when he realized what he’d said. “Sorry.”  
  
“KJ,” she whispered, a note of awe in her voice. “That’s, like, a really big deal.”  
  
“I know. I _know._ We’ve kind of been dating or something for the last two weeks.”  
  
“Or something?”  
  
“Well we haven’t talked since Saturday so I’m a little vague on the specifics right now.”  
  
Elsa made a noise on the other end of the phone, a mix between a scoff and another gasp and maybe something that sounded like a sigh. “Oh, KJ, what happened?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea.”  
  
“That seems like another lie.”  
  
It was. It absolutely was.

“Witch,” he muttered, drawing a laugh from Colorado and two hours ahead of him. “She left, El. We talked and I told her about Milah and I said...it doesn’t matter. Not really. I said things I shouldn’t have and she walked out and she’s still got my shirt.”  
  
“You’re worried about your shirt?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured,” Elsa murmured. “You should probably text her. Or call her. Or show up at her apartment as soon as you get back to the city.”

“She doesn’t have an apartment, she’s staying with one of her friends still.”  
  
“Well show up there then.”  
  
“It’s not that easy,” Killian sighed, tugging the hair at the base of his head.

“It absolutely could be. You told her about Milah, KJ. That’s the first time I’ve even heard you say her name in five years. This has to be big then.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe here meaning definitely?”  
  
“Maybe,” Killian repeated.

“You’re the most stubborn idiot in the entire world, you know that?”  
  
“She left, El. Not me.”  
  
“Well you couldn’t leave your own apartment. That would have been weird.”

Killian laughed again, but he was nodding in agreement too. “She’s worried,” he said, not quite sure when he actually agreed to start talking about this. He was breathing just a bit easier though and that seemed like something. It was probably important.

“About?”  
  
“People talking. This stupid team. The ridiculous string of gossip.”  
  
“Hence the under the radar.” Killian hummed in agreement, tugging one leg up towards his chest and resting his chin on his knee. He needed to get ready for morning skate. “How’d you get them all to leave you alone? They were all certain the set-up would work during the party. I mean it kind of did, but I guess none of them know.”  
  
“Swan’s very good at getting Scarlet to shut up,” Killian said, something that sounded a bit like a bit of misplaced pride in his voice.

Elsa didn’t say anything for days and Arthur _would_ actually kill him if he was late again. “You’re totally in love with her,” she said and she sounded like she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “Liam’s going to have a field day with this.”

“Don’t tell Liam,” Killian said sharply and he heard Elsa quick tongue click. It was the loudest noise in the history of the world – and possibly the most judgemental one too. “She walked out, El.”  
  
“Doesn’t change facts.”  
  
It didn’t. It was why he’d hit that guy in Carolina and barked at his linemates on every shift and why Will hadn’t even tried to look him in the eye when they walked off the ice on Sunday night, far too frustrated with Killian’s shitty skating.

And it was why he hadn’t called or texted or figured out where Mary Margaret’s apartment was because, somewhere deep down, Killian Jones was still just a bit terrified of losing – again.

“That team is a bit overwhelming,” Elsa said. “And you’re like everyone’s kid.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Come on, KJ, you can’t possibly be that dense.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
Elsa sighed, but there was just a bit of laughter on the edge as well and Killian felt the edges of his mouth tick up. “She’s living with her friend still, right?” He made some sort of noise that sounded like an agreement and Elsa hardly let him get the sound out before she continued her explanation of his entire life. “And you’ve got all these people and a team and they all want you to be happy and that’s got to be terrifying for someone on the outside looking in.”

He knew it.

He knew it for the last five weeks – he’d known it when they sat on the floor in B&H and she’d told him as much, certain she was _messing something up_ and intruding on something and it hadn’t been true then and it was even less true now.

Damn.

“Talk to her,” Elsa said again and it sounded a bit like a demand.

The door to the room swung open behind him and Killian snapped his head around to find a still-disgruntled Robin shooting metaphorical daggers at him. He probably would have thrown actual daggers if he could.

“This is your wakeup call,” Robin said, kicking at Killian’s leg for good measure.

He swatted at the calf a few inches away from him, muttering a few words under his breath and Elsa laughed on the other end of the phone, far too awake for whatever time it was in Colorado.

“I’ve got to go, El,” Killian said.

“Yeah, yeah, awfully convenient timing.”  
  
“Hey, thanks.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“Being a witch that can read my mind and knows exactly what to say every single time. It’d almost be terrifying if it weren’t so impressive.”  
  
“A glowing review if I’ve ever heard one.”  
  
Robin kicked at him again and Killian rolled his eyes. “You’re really ok, though?” he asked and Elsa stopped laughing almost immediately. “You’re not telling me something, I know it.”  
  
“You didn’t tell me something for five weeks.”  
  
“I’m serious, El.”  
  
“I know. And I’m really fine. I promise. Go skate and try not to actually kill anyone later tonight, ok? You’re going to scar my kids for life.”

* * *

God fucking damnit.

Arthur was going to make him walk back to New York. The door of the penalty box swung open and he was half a step away from connecting on that breakaway goal he’d promised Emma when he heard skates half a step behind him and he’d shot wide right.

Fuck.

He skated back towards the circle – first line back on the ice after the penalty kill and he probably should have gone off for a change, but he’d been _that close_ to a goal and he was a stubborn asshole who wanted his first goal of the season.

Will pushed forward out of their zone, puck on his stick and a Devils forward trying to forecheck and the guy was already half a step behind him. It only took one well-placed backhand to get the puck in the zone again.

He moved in front of the net, doing his best to screen and he felt a stick hit just above his ankles – one of the few places he wasn’t actually wearing pads.

They’d kept Phillip the Rookie on the first line after his game-winner in the opener and he’d lost some of his rookie _shine_ in the last few days, a bit more confident every time he moved. Of course, it was easier to be a bit more confident when you were able to weave through defenders like they weren’t even there and Phillip the Rookie was incredibly good at weaving through defenders while keeping the puck on his stick and his eyes on the goal.

He shot.

And Killian knew immediately it wouldn’t go in, knew he didn’t have the angle or the power and the Devils goalie wasn’t really half bad, but he also wasn’t very good at covering the puck. It was almost _too_ easy – and he’d say that several times during post with a smile on his face and a laugh just threatening the edge of his voice – stick moving before he’d even realized the puck was bouncing back towards him.

The light went off.

He’d scored.

Killian spun immediately, pointing towards Phillip the Rookie who just nodded in response, smile barely visible through his visor. Will crashed into his back, knocking the wind out of his lungs and everything was, suddenly, fine.

Or it had been fine.

He’d made first star and got the hat – another stupid _tradition_ that made Killian cringe every time he thought about it, the most disgusting sweat-infested fedora in the history of the goddamn league given to the player-picked player of the game. They made him smile for a picture, sitting in front of his visitor’s locker like he actually enjoyed wearing the hat.

And he half assumed his phone buzzing behind him was just a handful of vaguely mocking texts from the cavalry – certain Liam would have some very particular opinions about his first-period penalty and how he _should have scored on the breakaway, but the rebound was pretty good as far as makeup plays went._

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t even a text message.

It was several – all of them from Regina.

**If you’re going to volunteer for charity events you should probably give me some kind of heads up before you possibly back out of it.**

**And maybe don’t even agree to charity events before you talk to me about it. Since, you know, that’s my job.**

**Although this could be good.**

**You should probably tell her you’ll definitely do it.**

Killian stared at his phone, eyebrows drawn low as he brushed off Will’s questions. He tugged the hat off, tossing it in the locker behind him and his fingers practically raced over the keys when he responded.

_What are you talking about? I’m not backing out of anything. I told Emma I’d do it if she wanted. That is what you’re talking about, aren’t you?_

**Obviously.**

_Then where did the backing out come in?_

**She told Zelena about her game idea today. Zelena told me. Said Emma wasn’t sure if you were actually going to do it.**

**Nice goal by the way. Rol’s been running around all night practicing backhands.**

He didn’t answer. He stood up instead, stuffing his phone in his pocket with enough force that he was certain the seam of his pants was going to rip. And Robin glanced nervously at him, eyes darting towards Will in a way that practically screamed they knew something was wrong, but Killian didn’t say anything, just grabbed his bag and marched down the hallway towards the bus and, this time, he pretended to be asleep when Robin sat down.

He was mad and disappointed and he’d at least thought Emma trusted him. He wouldn’t back out of the game.

She thought he’d back out.

She thought he’d leave too.

God fucking damnit.

They were somewhere on NY-1 when he remembered the other messages on his phone and if he wasn’t going to actually sleep on this far-too-crowded bus, then he should, at least, acknowledge his family.

Killian shifted in his seat, doing his best to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit Robin’s arm – he’d stolen both armrests again – as he begrudgingly pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Except he didn’t just have messages from his family.

Emma.

**The New Jersey Devils name was selected as part of a newspaper contest, but it was based on the Jersey Devil, which is reported to have lived in the Pine Barrens. He was a monster. Thirteenth son. Totally the worst.**

He felt some his frustration ebb at the message, far too easy to picture her with her phone in her hands and her hair over her shoulders and, likely, her lip pulled tightly in between her teeth.

His thumb hovered over the screen for hours or centuries and they must have almost been back in the city by the time he finally started typing again, dimly aware of the cramp forming just below his knuckle.

_I didn’t know that, Swan._

Killian nearly groaned, only biting back the sound when he remembered Robin next to him and Will in the seat behind them and maybe El was right – he should have said something first. He probably shouldn’t have said anything to begin with.

**I thought you knew everything.**

_Not quite so much anymore._

Idiot. He’d typed and hit send before he’d even really considered it or the consequences of five words and that seemed to be a trend for the evening. And the last three days.

**First star. That second goal was ridiculous.**

_Thanks._

**The announcers were going nuts. And you almost had the hat trick if the shot after the penalty had gone in.**

They were back – bus pulling up short of the backside of the Garden and Robin jerked awake next to him, hand falling off the armrest he’d commandeered. “We here?” he asked softly, blinking like he’d never seen 34th Street before.

Killian nodded and Robin mumbled _nice goal_ again before making his way off the bus. He wrote no less than five different text messages back, sitting in the car that had been waiting for him as soon as he got off the bus and he didn’t send a single one of them.

He didn’t really sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever write another fic where Ariel doesn't just constantly sass Killian, assume someone has taken over my body and started writing the wrong type of fic. I love Ariel and I love Elsa and we're back to New York on Saturday and someone's going to actually have to talk to someone. Face to face.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the clicks, comments and kudos. @laurenorder is a word-reading superhero. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	17. Chapter 17

The cup was going to burn her hand. She should have gotten one of those gripper things. What were they called? The cardboard things that made sure the cup wouldn’t burn her hands. They had a name.

Emma was certain of it.

It didn’t matter.

She’d forgotten them anyway. And now she was going to burn her hand.

There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

That didn’t matter either.

She shifted on her feet, nerves churning in the pit of her stomach and the back of her throat and she _could do this_ – at least Mary Margaret believed she could do this, promising those exact words to Emma when she’d pushed a mug towards her that morning. That mug didn’t burn her hands.

Because it was a mug. She’d lost track of the metaphor. And, possibly, her life.

She hoped she’d at least gotten the order right. This would all be kind of pointless if she didn’t. He had put sugar in his coffee when they went to Starbucks and B&H, but she’d only really been half paying attention, far too preoccupied with his sunglasses and that slightly nervous smile on his face, but she was fairly certain he hadn’t put milk in his coffee. She hadn’t put milk in the coffee she’d just bought him either, some sort of _let’s talk_ and maybe _I’m sorry_ in the form of a venti black coffee that she couldn’t believe anyone actually wanted to drink.

“You ok?”  
  
Emma snapped her head up, eyes wide and she nearly dropped both cups, gripping them just a bit tighter to compensate for her surprise. God damnit, that was hot. “Fuck,” she mumbled, biting out the word under her breath and Ariel laughed softly, gaze tracing across Emma’s undoubtedly tense shoulders.

“You particularly thirsty, right now?”

“What?” Ariel nodded towards the cups clutched in Emma’s hands and her gripped slackened just a bit as she rolled her shoulders back. “Oh,” she said, realization hitting her quickly and she shook her head. “No, no, no, I uh…”  
  
She trailed off, biting her lip quickly and she didn’t actually have a reason for lurking in this hallway on the fifteenth floor, a few feet outside of the gym, Victor’s voice drifting towards her ears every few moments, threats of _hitting you with the weights if you don’t actually put them down like a normal human being_ becoming more and more frequent the longer Emma stayed rooted to the spot.

Ariel narrowed her eyes, something that looked a bit like understanding passing across her face. “Right,” she said slowly. “They’re definitely all in there.”  
Emma knew. She was well aware they were _all_ in there – the entire goddamn first line of the New York Rangers and probably Phillip the Rookie too and that was why she hadn’t moved from her spot, pressed up against the wall with two cups burning her palms. She was the biggest coward in the entire world.

And he’d never answered her back.

She didn’t really sleep the night before.

She hummed in the back of her throat and Ariel smiled at her, that same understanding crossing her face as she took a step closer to the wall Emma was almost positive would have her imprint on it if she stayed pressed against it much longer.

“I hear you’re planning a charity game,” Ariel said conversationally and Emma really shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, the whole entire building probably knew her plans by now.

“You heard correctly.”  
  
“You going to bribe him with coffee then?”

“Who?”  
  
“Killian.” Emma pressed her lips together tightly, sinking her heels into the bright blue carpet and Ariel laughed again, smile inching across her face. “Regina’s got a very big mouth. She told me in some vaguely desperate attempt to get Killian to answer his phone yesterday and I told Mary Margaret, so apologies in advance, or backwards-ness, for being part of the problem and not the solution of this stupid team.”  
   
Emma laughed before she could stop herself, a bit of that tension easing out of her shoulders. “That’s ok. And I guess I am a little bit.”  
  
“You are a little bit, what?”  
  
“Bribing him with coffee,” Emma said, scrunching her nose. Ariel’s smile only widened.

“He’ll totally do it. He could use a bit of good press at this point after he nearly killed that guy in Carolina.”  
  
Ariel didn’t notice Emma’s quick intake of breath – or if she did, she didn’t say anything and Emma wasn’t certain which one was better. He’d totally almost killed that guy in Carolina and Ruby must have been up to her ears in paperwork and press releases and pointedly ignoring media requests.

She was half surprised Ruby wasn’t in the gym, throwing Victor’s very expensive weights at Killian.

“He’ll totally do it,” Ariel said again, nodding once like that decided that. “Who are you going to get on the other side?”

“I was thinking Phillip the Rookie, actually.”  
  
Ariel’s laugh seemed to take up the entire hallway, the sound inching across every single bit of that ridiculously bright blue carpet and sinking into Emma’s body until she couldn’t come up with a reason to be nervous about anything ever again. What had Killian said before? Ariel was very determined to help when people they needed it?

Emma needed it.

No wonder Mary Margaret liked her so much.

“I love it,” Ariel said and there was no way to question that she absolutely _did_ love it. “Put them on some shirts and this’ll be the greatest event that’s ever happened at the Garden. They’ll probably add you to all those exhibits they’ve got on the concourse.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far quite yet,” Emma laughed, but she could feel the smile tugging on her face and the cups in her hands had, finally, started to cool down.

This metaphor was absurd.

“Mary Margaret sent me a photo of your dress,” Ariel said, still smiling at Emma. “It’s not bad. I wouldn't go blue, but it’s not bad.”  
  
“I think that’s mostly David’s choice honestly,” Emma muttered. “Reese’s would probably pick a totally different color if she could, but we’re on some sort of ridiculous hockey kick and she’s just kind of going along with it.”  
  
Ariel nodded seriously and it didn’t quite feel _normal_ – Emma still didn’t know her much more than the team’s director of PT and she’d been part of the set-up that worked, but no one knew worked, but they kept smiling at each other and it felt a bit like it could be normal. Emma needed to stop analyzing everything so much.

This wasn’t LA.

“Aren’t we always on some sort of ridiculous hockey kick?” Will asked, leading a line of professional hockey players out of the gym while Victor continued to grumble about the state of his weights and the streakiness of his mirror. “Those are, like, the rules, right?”  
  
Ariel shrugged, making some sort of contradictory noise in the back of her throat and Emma’s shoulders tensed again, every nerve she’d been certain had dissipated just a few moments before returning in full-force.

He was standing behind Robin – team-branded t-shirt and shorts and, probably, sneakers, but Emma didn’t really notice any of it, just met his gaze straight on. And she was glad she was still leaning against the wall, because she probably would have fallen over otherwise, Killian’s eyes far too blue and far too...something she wasn’t willing to actually name.

She took a shaky breath and did her best to smile, well aware that it didn’t actually work the way she’d intended it to. He must not have actually been lifting – his hair wasn’t mussed enough, although a particularly ridiculous voice sounded in the back of her mind, that might have been because the last time Emma had actually seen him in person, his hair was sticking up because she’d run her fingers through it so many times.

His mouth opened slightly, parting just enough that Emma could see his tongue when it flashed over his lower lip. “Hey, Swan,” he said softly.

“Hey. Nice shot last night.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Will’s head swung back and forth between them, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to understand exactly what was going on. Emma was too. “Two shots,” he said after a few more moments. “Cap scored twice.”  
  
“That’s true,” Emma admitted, shifting her weight on her feet again and there absolutely wasn’t enough oxygen in this hallway. Or maybe there was too much. She wasn’t quite sure. She gripped the cups a bit tighter in her hands.

“And assisted on Locksley’s empty-netter,” Will added, nodding towards Killian like some sort of proud brother or something. Jeez, this team was stupid.

Killian shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded a bit like _enough, Scarlet_ and Will held his hands up in confusion.

“Hey before we get too far into hero-worshipping Killian’s ability to do his job,” Ariel interrupted, “can we talk about how good his shirt with Phillip the Rookie is going to look?”

“What are you talking about, Red?” Killian asked, finally pulling his eyes away from Emma and that was probably good. They couldn’t keep staring longingly at each other with the Rangers first line just a few inches away from them.

Ariel groaned and leaned forward to punch against his shoulder lightly. “You’ve got to do it! Gina said you already said you would.”  
  
His eyes snapped back to Emma again, mouth still open and she could see him take a deep breath, shoulders moving a bit more than necessary. He flexed his hand, fingers moving quickly as he tried to touch each one to his thumb.

“Of course I’m going to do it,” Killian said sharply and Emma pressed her shoulder blades into the wall, pushing her heels into the ground until she was half certain she’d worked her way underneath the carpet and the tiled floor. He tilted his head when she looked up at him, something that almost resembled hope in his gaze. And something in her might have shifted or resettled or moved back into place, but she still couldn’t quite take a deep breath and this all felt a bit like a dream.

She’d walked out. She’d walked away.

He was going to help anyway.

“Obviously,” Killian added, widening his eyes at Ariel, but Emma got the distinct impression the word was meant for her. “I’m just not sure where Phillip the Rookie becomes part of the equation.”

Four pairs of eyes landed on Emma and she blinked once when she felt the combined weight of their questioning stares. “I thought I’d ask him to coach the other side,” she said, voice just a bit stronger than she expected it to be. Good. That was good. “You know veteran captain against new up and comer. There’s a whole angle to it. I didn’t come up with the shirt idea though, that was all Ruby.”  
  
Robin barked out a laugh, clapping Killian on the shoulder with enough force that he actually leaned forward – just a few inches away from Emma. “I think she just called you old, Jones. Grizzled veteran.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely what I said,” Emma argued, but everyone was laughing and even Killian smiled at her.

“It’s alright, Swan,” he promised, reaching his hand out and brushing his fingers over the back of her palm. She couldn’t breathe again. “You’re not entirely wrong, you know.”  
  
“Phillip the Rookie will absolutely lose his mind,” Robin continued, laughter clinging to his voice. “You might want to pick a different guy, Emma. He’ll probably lose on purpose, just so he doesn’t take down his hero.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, come on, Emma,” Will added. “You got to pick a guy who knows how to build a team around him.”  
  
“What makes you think I’m going to let any of you pick your teams?” Emma asked, drawing a laugh out of Killian. She grinned at him, eyes flashing his direction before making their way back to Will who’d crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “And what is it you’re suggesting exactly, you want to be in charge of a team?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“You wouldn’t look as good on the shirt as Phillip the Rookie.”  
  
“She’s got you there,” Ariel laughed, hand tugging on the front of Will’s shirt, the blue just a bit worse for wear. “This is, after all, for charity.”  
  
“That’s just rude,” Will mumbled. “Fine, fine, put Phillip the Rookie on some sort of charity pedestal. I’ll just hit him a bit harder when we play.”  
  
“That’s the spirit,” Emma said.

Will made a face – with a very prominent tongue and eye roll – before stalking down the hallway. Robin shook his head, shooting Emma an apologetic look that practically screamed _dad_ at her. “He won’t hit Phillip the Rookie too hard,” Robin promised. “It’s a charity game. And a really good idea, by the way. Gina told me about it yesterday. Rol’s thrilled. He’s determined to be part of Killian’s team.”  
  
Emma’s heart stuttered in her chest, beating out painfully behind her ribs and that wasn’t even fair – he couldn’t be all of that at once, staring at her like she was the center of the goddamn universe and some six-year-old’s hero and he must have gotten fined for that hit in Carolina. She’d tried not to think about it, tried to forget the look on his face – visible even through his visor – when he skated to the box, the complete opposite of how he’d looked when he connected on Phillip the Rookie’s rebound in New Jersey.

They needed to talk.

“I think we can make sure Rol gets what he wants,” Emma said, falling into nicknames that she maybe didn’t really deserve to use yet. She wasn’t sure – she _almost,_ almost felt like part of this team. Ariel was still smiling at her.

“He’ll be thrilled,” Robin laughed. “And he’s excited to see you too soon. He was disappointed you didn’t come uptown for the swing.”  
  
Emma pushed her lips together, guilt settling in every inch of her body and she hadn’t really even considered the possibility that Roland Locksley would have realized she didn’t come uptown for a two-game road swing.

Huh.

Maybe she was part of this team.

“I was kind of busy,” she said evasively, waving one of her hands in the air. She was still holding the stupid cups. Robin hummed in the back of his throat, an understanding noise that, somehow, made Emma feel even guiltier and she couldn’t quite bring herself to actually look at Killian, standing stone still just a few feet away from her. “But,” she continued slowly, the beginnings of an idea forming in the back of her mind, “maybe we could do something for the Bruins game on Sunday? I’m going to be in the team suite for most of the game. We’ve got...I’ve got...”

“It’s Henry’s birthday,” Killian said and Emma couldn’t stop herself from staring at him if she tried, surprise coloring her expression as he shrugged in response.  
  
Robin’s eyes move d in between them and they were absolutely _horrible_ at under the radar. “He’ll be thrilled,” he said, smiling at Emma. “Come on A, let’s go make sure Scarlet doesn’t start rooting around in the equipment room to try and add to his clothing collection.”  
  
“That’s disgusting,” Ariel muttered, but Robin just shrugged and Killian hadn’t stopped looking at Emma yet.

“It is, come on.” Robin slung his arm around her shoulders, tugging her down the hallway and after Will and they were by themselves – or as alone as they could possibly be in the middle of the fifteenth floor.

Emma took a deep breath, tugging her lips over her teeth and she couldn’t come up with a single thing to say. She’d had a plan – or at least half a plan – a well-crafted apology and some kind of almost complete explanation that would make sense and she’d bought coffee. It was probably lukewarm by now.

“Does Will really find clothes in the equipment room?” she asked, rushing over the words like she was trying to see how quickly she could get them out.

Killian blinked once and he was still moving his fingers, the movement almost unnoticeable when he shifted his hand against the side of his leg. “Um,” he said quickly, blinking again and he laughed once before he said anything else, a quiet exhale of air that sounded as if he’d been holding it in for the better part of the last ten minutes. “Probably not so much anymore. But when we first started absolutely. He used to throw them in a pile in the middle of the hallway when I was a rookie. Drove me insane.”  
  
“Wait, you lived with Will? When?”

“First couple of seasons. It was an unqualified disaster. We’re both far too stubborn for our own good. I’m surprised we didn’t actually kill each other, honestly.”  
  
“So you haven’t always had that ridiculously fancy apartment?”  
  
“It’s hardly ridiculous, Swan.”  
  
She felt the ends of her mouth tick up and she hadn’t quite realized she’d _missed him_ in some sort of vaguely overwhelming way until just then, missed how he could make her smile and laugh and her shoulders weren’t as tense anymore, even if they hadn’t really gotten to the dramatic part of the conversation yet.

“Yeah, well,” Emma muttered. “When you’re living on a couch, anything above that seems a bit ridiculous. And you’ve got some sort of security guard, so that’s like a whole other level of ridiculous.”

“You’ve said the word ridiculous several times now, love, I think we’ve established that.”

His eyes widened when he’d realized what he’d said, mouth falling open just a bit and Emma hated it – far too aware that she was the reason behind the nerves and the questions he hadn’t really asked yet.

In fact, if she were being completely honest with herself, she’d realize that he hadn’t really asked any questions _ever_. He’d just waited for her to talk and offered up his own past without prompting, some sort of unspoken understanding that Emma was a bit of an emotional disaster.

“You’d still do it?” Emma asked, eyes falling down towards her shoes and he hummed in confusion. She hadn’t really said anything yet. “I mean the game. You’d still coach the game? I wasn’t...I didn’t…”  
  
His sneakers made their way into her eyeline and she barely registered his hand moving, thumb tucked under her chin until she didn’t have much of a choice except to look up at him. He was smiling. “Of course,” he said seriously.

And she was somewhere in the realm of swooning mess, breath rushing out of her and eyes blinking quickly so she wouldn’t do something idiotic like actually start to cry in the middle of the hallway on the fifteenth floor.

“I’d like to help, Swan,” Killian said softly, thumb tracing along the curve of her chin and she couldn’t move because she was still holding bribe-coffee. She didn’t need it. She should have known.

He hadn’t left. Or he’d come back.

She didn’t care about the specifics.

She couldn’t move her arms, couldn’t push her hands into his hair the way she wanted to or pull him close to her, but Emma pressed up on her toes anyway, heels popping out of the flats she had on when her lips hit his.

Killian made some sort of noise, but it wasn’t the surprise Emma had been expecting. It wasn’t even the _want_ that had seemed to define their relationship from that very first set-up. It felt a bit like coming home – or what she’d always imagined coming home would feel like, soft and warm and so goddamn easy it simply felt like she was breathing him in.

His hands landed on the small of her back, fingers tracing out a nonsensical pattern up and down the line of her spine as he pulled her flush against his chest. She could feel him moving against her, shifting every time he took a deep breath and he pulled back slightly, mouth moving away from hers. He ignored her response to that – some type of scoff that was mostly just frustration that they hadn’t even been able to get out of the hallway before they started making out again – but Emma couldn’t really do anything when he started trailing kisses along her jaw, moving up towards her ear and the side of her neck and the entire New York Rangers roster could have shown up and she would have told him to keep going.

Or to never stop.

Probably to never stop.

She yelped when he knocked against her arm, shaking her somewhat tenuous grip on the coffee cup in her right hand and Killian snapped his head up, as if he suddenly realized she hadn’t been touching him that entire time.

“Have you always had those?” he asked, nodding towards the cups.

Emma nodded, head spinning just a bit. “I was, uh, going to charity-game bribe you with coffee.”  
  
He pulled his head back, eyebrows low when he looked at her. “You don’t need to do that, love. Although I appreciate the sentiment of it.”  
  
“That’s not exactly my strong suit.”  
  
“What isn’t?”  
  
“Sentiment.”  
  
“A work in progress.”  
  
“You are far too positive,” Emma muttered, but she couldn’t overlook the way her stomach flipped just a bit at his words, the certainty in a few letters, as if he really did believe in her. Or her ability to be a bit sentimental.

“Nah,” Killian argued. “Just confident.”  
  
“In?” He didn’t answer immediately, lips twisted just a bit like he was trying to find the right words and Emma felt a fresh wave of post-makeout guilt hit her immediately. “You want to take a walk?” she asked. “Maybe not sign a lease and take up residence on the fifteenth floor?”

He nodded quickly, hands still on her back and his grip tightened just a bit when he moved, holding the fabric of her dress in between his fingers. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

* * *

She’d led them back east, the opposite direction Killian had taken them the last time they’d done this and that had obviously been a mistake because they walked out of the Garden and half a dozen people immediately recognized him and demanded pictures and selfies and at least two of them conveniently had pucks on them like they were just waiting for a professional hockey player to show up on the corner of 34th and 7th.

It took forty-five minutes – forty-five minutes of autographs and photos and they should have gone the opposite direction.

She tried not to dwell on that for too long. She’d already done enough metaphor’ing that afternoon.

“I am so sorry,” Emma said for what felt like the eighteenth time once they pulled themselves away from fans and onto the patch of grass that she’d been leading them towards on 6th Avenue.

She sank into one of the chairs at the city-provided tables and Killian hooked his foot around the other seat, shaking his head as he sat down. “Stop apologizing, Swan. There’s not anything to be sorry about.”  
  
“Yeah, but….”  
  
“No buts. It’s fine.”  
  
He made a face, widening his eyes as if _that was that_ and Emma took a sip of her hot chocolate, cinnamon somehow stronger than normal now that the drink wasn’t threatening to burn her hand. They didn’t say anything and this was _stupid_ – they could have a conversation. They were friends.

Or something a bit more concrete than friends in a high-school type of way that neither one of them had really voiced quite yet.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said again and Killian sighed loudly, rolling his head as he put his half-empty cup down on the table.

“Swan, I thought we’d covered this. You don’t have anything to be sorry about. There are fans. It’s the beginning of the season and…”  
  
“No, that’s not what I meant,” she interrupted and Killian’s eyebrows practically flew up his forehead. “I meant...I meant from before. I’m sorry about before.”

“Oh,” he muttered, shifting back in his chair and stretching his legs out until his sneakers threatened to brush against the side of her flats.

Emma took a deep breath and tried to remember the explanation she’d come up with on the train that morning, a semi-detailed reason for why she’d run and how she didn’t really want to run anymore and that she maybe, _maybe_ , trusted him.

She didn’t say any of that.  
  
“I like you,” she said instead, blurting out the words in the middle of the jam-packed park with tourists and Macy’s bags and a Waffles and Dinges cart. Killian’s eyes widened, but he sat up a bit straighter and she could see the muscles in his throat move when he swallowed, tongue darting into the corner of his mouth.

“That so?” he asked softly.

“Like a lot.”

“Well that works out fairly well since I like you too.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Like a lot.”  
  
Emma sighed and both of her lungs might have actually been collapsing for all the air that seemed to rush out of them at once, head falling forward just a bit until her hair found its way into her eyes. And it shouldn’t have made sense to hear him laugh – the sound barely audible over the crowd and the tourists and the cars – but she could. She could hear him laugh and when she lifted her head he was smiling at her, staring at her in that way she couldn’t quite name or completely understand yet.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Emma muttered, mouth dry despite the absurd amount of hot chocolate she kept drinking. “That’s just kind of my thing.”  
  
“Your thing?”  
  
Emma nodded slowly. “Seems to be everyone’s thing, honestly. Or it did.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Everyone’s always left,” she said, words jumbled just a bit like she’d never actually learned the English language. She kept staring at her hands. “All the time and so, I’ve just learned to respond in kind. I walked out and I didn’t say anything or do anything and you still told Regina you’d coach and you’ve shown up every single time I’ve asked. I don’t get it.”  
  
Killian moved again, pulling his legs back up as he crossed his arms lightly over his chest. “What are you getting at, love?”  
  
“I don’t understand why you’d want to.”  
  
The words were out of her mouth before she could realize what she was saying or asking and once she did, Emma couldn’t quite believe she’d done it, terror shooting through every vein and every artery until she was positive there was more emotion coursing through her system than any actual blood.

She twisted her hands together, wrists moving in almost impossible ways until Killian reached forward, tugging her fingers apart and lacing them through his own.

“Hey,” he said softly, thumb moving over the back of her palm until she stopped fidgeting at this very public table. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”  
  
She must have found an extra bit of oxygen, because Emma sighed and she had fallen face first in _swooning_ and _romance_ with an ease that both terrified her and made her half believe that the world might actually be an ok place where things didn’t always end in disappointment.

“All you have to do, Swan,” Killian continued, tugging her hand up until his lips were against her knuckles. “Is trust me.”  
  
“I’m not particularly good at that.  
  
“Another work in progress then.”  
  
“Did you get fined?” Emma asked and he made a noise at the abrupt shift in conversation. “You looked like you wanted to kill that guy.”  
  
“No one got murdered.”  
  
“Almost. Was it bad?”  
  
“Ruby didn’t tell you?”  
  
Emma shook her head, making a face. “I’ve been kind of game-focused for the last two days. I’ve got to get budget ideas to Zelena by the end of the week and I’ve never done anything like that before and I might have been feeling slightly to moderately guilty.”

“About?”  
  
“I shouldn’t have left.”

He brushed his lips over her fingers again, squeezing just a bit tighter than he had to as if he was a little worried she’d just get up and walk away from that table as well. “It’s alright, Swan.”  
  
“Was there a fine?”  
  
“Two,” he laughed. “I was late for film.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“If you say that one more time, love, I might flip this table.”

Emma laughed, nodding as if that was the only reasonable response to yet another muttered apology. “You think we can just be...normal?”  
  
“Normal?”  
  
“Well I mean as normal as it’s possible to be when one of us has a life-sized photo of themselves on the side of Madison Square Garden.”

Killian shrugged, lips twisted slightly and that wasn’t even fair. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing back on the slightly wobbly chair provided by the city of New York until he was balancing on the back two legs and Emma eyed him critically. “What exactly qualifies as normal in this situation?”  
  
It was a fair question, almost _too_ fair – because no matter what they did he was still going to have a life-sized photo of himself on the side of Madison Square Garden and there’d still be fans waiting outside the team exit asking for autographs and conveniently holding pucks like that was a thing people normally did.

And Emma nearly got up and walked away again.

She almost pushed through the tourists and the Macy’s bags and she probably would have knocked over several of these ridiculously rickety chairs, but she didn’t. She didn’t move. She sat still.

And stared.

Killian just lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her to answer. She wasn’t sure she had one. She wanted just as much as she had before the opener and after the opener and as soon as he walked out of the gym and that couldn’t have really only been an hour ago, could it?

Emma clicked her tongue and shifted in her seat, trying to find a way to move without having a piece of metal pushed into her spinal cord. “I’m not entirely sure there is a normal in this situation,” she admitted.

“Then what do you want to do?”  
  
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked her that – he’d said the same thing in between 8th and 9th Ave. He’d asked the same thing when they were somewhere in the realm of ripping off each other’s clothes in his ridiculously expensive apartment. He kept giving her an out.

She didn’t want one.

“I like you,” Emma said again and it wasn’t enough, hardly eloquent or even remotely the same as what he’d told her when she’d run away, but it was some sort of cosmic leap for her. And she knew he understood.

Of course he did.

Killian beamed at her, pushing the chair back on both of its legs and leaning across the table to grab both of her hands in his.

“Tell me something,” he said.

Emma lowered one of her eyebrows, but the terror she was certain was inevitable never quite came and she didn’t pull her hands out of his. She moved her fingers instead, working them in between Killian’s until her thumb found that one ridge of scarred skin and she traced the pad of her finger over it. He didn’t stop her.

“Like what?” Emma asked.

“You talk to Bobby Flay yet?”

She laughed, smile meeting his in the middle of the park and she realized she didn’t care if it wasn’t ever particularly normal. He kept making her smile. “I have not talked to Bobby Flay yet,” Emma admitted and his grin somehow got bigger, eyebrows lifted in a way that made her stomach clench and her heart thump erratically. “I have, however, picked a date?”  
  
“That so?”

“Yup,” she said, popping her lips on the final letter. “March. The fifth if you want to get really specific. Post-Casino Night. Zelena went _nuts_ for that. We’re going auction off a whole bunch of stuff so get ready to pose for like a million and two photo-ops with season tickets.”  
  
“I think I can handle that, Swan.”  
  
“Good because you didn’t really have much of a choice. Regina was very quick to agree to all of this by the way.”  
  
“That’s because she’s under some sort of impression that she _knows what’s best_ for me. She and Locksley more or less adopted me when Liam got hurt. Sometimes I think they consider me as much their kid as Rol.”  
  
Emma let out a low whistle and, eventually, he was going to say something or do something that didn’t make her head spin just a bit or land far too close to home to be completely comfortable or entirely coincidental.

“What?” Killian asked, head tilted in concern.

“I am absolutely Reese’s and David’s kid. For as long as I can remember. It was like once they decided they were _it_ for one another, True Love with capital letters and all that, they needed an outlet for all that emotion. I got most of it.”  
  
“Which explains why they were so quick to offer up their couch.”  
  
“Exactly that.”

Emma laughed once, eyes closed lightly as she remembered school and how they’d gone to a party once their sophomore year – a _themed_ party that required them to dress like Lady Gaga and she’d drawn a lightning bolt on her face with eyeliner – and they got so drunk that David came to get both of them, half-carrying them each to his car because his apartment was closer than the closet they lived in.

He celebrated the anniversary of that night every year, blasting Poker Face in their slightly disgruntled faces until both Emma and Mary Margaret cracked and laughed and screamed back all the lyrics at the top of their lungs.

It had always been like that – the three of them with some sort of _us against the world_ mentality that only occasionally felt a bit awkward when Emma found herself on the outside looking in on relationship perfection.

Someday she wouldn’t be jealous.

Or pretend like she wasn’t jealous.

“How’d you end up in Boston?” Killian asked suddenly, shaking Emma out of memories and emotions and she knew she gasped slightly when his face shifted, teeth pressed into his lower lip tightly.

“I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life,” she said honestly, words falling out of her easier than she expected. She didn’t think about that. Or how Killian shifted his shoulders just a bit when she actually answered his question, hands still wrapped up in hers as he squeezed just a little more than normal.

“You know I actually thought about being a cop?” Emma asked. She appreciated the way his eyes widened at that, humming slightly in the back of her throat. “That’s all David now and it’s probably for the best because there’s like an insane amount of running involved and that’s just not really for me at all.

I’d been in Boston for...a while when I was a kid,” she continued, brushing over the group home and the kids and how her stuff always, somehow, seemed to go missing in that overcrowded room. She hated it there, but it had been the longest she’d ever stayed anywhere – two years until she was twelve and the house shut down and she got shipped to Florida and then Missouri and six months in Iowa and, eventually, Minnesota.

And when she graduated and Minnesota was a not-so-distant, but just as bitter memory, she’d packed up her one box and schlepped back to Boston, hoping against hope that, maybe, it wouldn’t be quite so bad that time.

It wasn’t.

Mary Margaret and David made sure of that.

“Anyway,” Emma said sharply, doing her best to keep those pesky emotions and depressing backstory in check. Not yet. She couldn’t tell him that yet. “I figured I’d get out of Minnesota and come back to the East Coast and I got into BU and, well, that was that. I figured I’d just pick something once I got to school, but that was kind of easier said than done, especially when everyone around me seemed to be on the fast track to some sort of plan and degree and saving the world.”  
  
“You know people who save the world, Swan?” Killian asked, that smirk doing absolutely absurd things to her ability to maintain this almost normal conversation.

“Well, David is a cop,” she reasoned. “And Reese’s is a fourth-grade teacher. Aren’t those everyday heroes or something?”  
  
“If we’re following the Hallmark route.”  
  
“In this case we are. Trust me on this one, they’re other-level. The pinnacle of all that is good and pure in the world.”

“Well they did get you to New York,” he muttered and Emma’s mouth dropped open. This not-so-emotional conversation had taken a very sudden turn. And he needed to stop saying things like that. Or she’d keep thinking things she shouldn’t.

Emma shrugged, not entirely trusting herself to say anything else. “They both always knew what they wanted to do, declared before they even got to school and there I was, taking generic 100 classes just so I could stay full-time.”  
  
“So what changed?”  
  
“Hockey.”  
  
“Hockey?”  
  
She nodded. “It was...October? Preseason for sure. David was sitting in our living room waiting for Reese’s to come out and he’d stolen the remote and was hogging the TV and he kept talking about _the team_ in reverent tones until I finally started to listen to him. He was watching the Rangers. I didn’t get it at all at first. I’d never watched a hockey game before, never even really cared about sports before, but he stole the remote and turned on a shitty preseason game and it was like everything fell into place. I loved it. I didn’t understand it, but I loved it. The speed of it and the sound of it and there’s some almost kind of...I don’t know...romantic about it.”  
  
“Romantic?” Killian repeated skeptically and Emma wasn’t certain if he meant to hold her hand even tighter. Probably not.

They were just….dating? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Friends who did whatever they’d done after the opener and then thought about it for a questionable number of days afterwards because it might have been the best night of Emma’s entire life?

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat and tried to pull her hand out of Killian’s grip so she could wave them in the air. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“Romantic,” she said again. “I had this whole idea of what a team should be because that’s what David kept calling it. He still does it now. He calls you guys _the team,_  he rarely even uses Rangers, like it’s some other kind of group and somewhere in the back of my mind I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be. A group working together for a goal and a dream and all sorts of sentimental nonsense.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
“Here, I guess. Not in Vancouver. Or LA. Definitely not in LA. You know Stevenson, the Kings captain?” Killian nodded. “He used to take shots at the guys during practice and he legitimately went to league-mandated anger management the season before I left. It was nothing like it was here. There were a couple of groups and guys that almost got along, but the game ended and it was as if everything team-oriented just stopped.”  
  
Killian looked at her for half a moment and Emma got the distinct impression he was trying to read her – certain there was still _something_ she wasn’t telling him.

Open book.

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

“We tried to keep it out of headlines. There were a couple of Twitter rumors, but it never got much bigger than that.”  
  
“Good at your job, love.”  
  
“PR was the only thing I was even remotely qualified for. I declared two weeks after David showed me that first game and I started working for the team at school. I lived at Agganis during college. I think half the team was convinced I actually did.”  
  
“Wasn’t there a Frozen Four appearance somewhere in there?”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, a bit stunned that he knew that. “Yeah,” she muttered. “My junior year. We went to Tampa of all places. That was the first time I’d been to Florida since…”

She snapped her jaw shut, pain shaking through her mouth when he teeth clacked together. “Since what?” Killian asked.

“I lived in Florida when I was a kid.”  
  
“Boston, Florida and Minnesota?” Emma nodded and he didn’t sound like he was pressing for information. He sounded genuinely curious. He sounded like he actually wanted to know. Huh. “That’s a lot.”  
  
“I moved around a lot when I was a kid,” she said evasively and Killian hummed in the back of his throat.

And she got the distinct impression – again – that he knew she still wasn’t telling him something, but it might not have really mattered. He looked like he understood, or could read or face or find the hidden meaning in between the letters of finding hockey romantic.

Emma wanted a team. Emma wanted a family. She needed both of them – a bit desperately if she was being honest with herself.

She’d never found it. Not completely.

She’d lived everywhere, but nothing ever felt _right_ and even playing the role of Mary Margaret and David’s surrogate child felt a bit false, still the weird, third corner of their makeshift triangle.

And that stupid, ridiculous voice in the back of her mind practically screamed at her, jumping around on her cerebellum and bouncing off the sides of her skull, shouting _you’ve found it here_ as if Emma didn’t find herself thinking it every time she walked into her office or came up with another part of the charity game plan or when Killian Jones, captain of the goddamn New York Rangers, looked at her like she was the center of everything.

She might have thought it then.

“So, I got the PR degree and the internship with the Bruins, which might have actually ruined David’s entire life, and the trip to the Frozen Four and I ended up in Vancouver as like the lowest level of the totem pole. But I worked until I could hardly see straight and they made me manager of public relations my last year there.”  
  
Killian opened his mouth, but Emma was quicker with her answer and he laughed softly when she kept talking. “I ended up in LA by accident. They had the director opening and I applied on a whim. I was fairly certain I wouldn’t even get an interview, let alone an entire department.”  
  
“You’re good at your job, Swan,” Killian said intently and Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Tell me that after I figure out this charity game budget.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
“You think Phillip the Rookie will be game to coach? I haven’t even asked him yet.”  
  
“Sure he will,” Killian said.

“You gonna slam him into the boards if he doesn’t automatically agree to it?”  
  
“I resent the implication, love,” he laughed. “I’m not normally the one on this team who gets five-minute majors, you know.”  
  
“That strictly Scarlet territory?”  
  
“Exactly. And as you’ll remember I’m a bit out of fighting shape. The only reason I know how to check is because Liam was always good at that. Guys used to actually skate away from him at school when he’d come up to forecheck on him. He had this way of getting under your shoulder blades. It’d hurt for days.”  
  
“I take it you’re well experienced in feeling that particular brand of pain?”

“Older brothers have a way of making sure you do.”  
  
Emma laughed, but she felt that telltale tension between her shoulders – always appearing whenever Killian started talking about a family and she knew everything she was thinking read on her face as clear as day. “Rol’s going to have to find a new name for you,” she said, doing her best to redirect the conversation.

“Ah, I don’t know about that. I could hit if I wanted. We do play Pittsburgh again soon, after all.”  
  
“Don’t even joke about that.”  
  
He smiled at her, eyes flashing up towards hers and if he kissed across her knuckles one more time _she_ was going to hit him. Or maybe add the park outside Macy’s to the list of places they’d made out.

She hadn’t really decided yet.

“Phillip the Rookie will absolutely coach,” Killian said. “And not because any of the first liners would absolutely board him if he didn’t agree to it immediately, but because he’d do whatever you asked, love. You’ll find, I think, that you’ve carved out quite a spot for yourself on this team. And it doesn’t have anything to do with me either. This is all you, Swan. You’re doing something good here. He’ll do it.”  
  
Emma blinked quickly and took a deep breath, pressing her lips together so she didn’t start shouting overly emotional responses at him across the table.

She believed him.

“I told Reese’s,” she said and she should probably stop just blurting out words.

Killian, however, surprised her again – laughing loudly as he threw his head back and his hair flew across his forehead when he moved back to stare at her.

“Well that puts us on slightly more even footing, Swan, because I told El too.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Before morning skate yesterday. She knew as soon as I hit that guy in Carolina.”  
  
She scoffed, shaking her head slightly. “I told Reese’s during the game yesterday. I think she kicked David out of the apartment so she could accost me with a bottle of wine and demands to explain why I’d been walking around in a funk since the opener.”  
  
“Were you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Walking around in a funk since the opener?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma said easily. “I mean it wasn’t absolutely destroying some unsuspecting Hurricanes player with my stick, but it was a very definitive type of funk.”  
  
“At least yours didn’t end in a fine and a very early-morning phone call from your sister-in-law that broke the game-day schedule.”  
  
“You have a game-day schedule?”  
  
“Set in stone for the last five years. Locksley was furious.”  
  
“I can’t imagine Robin being furious about anything.”  
  
“Wait until we get closer to the playoffs. He gets very focused, starts barking out orders and he’s very specific about what he eats in March.”  
  
“Only March?” Emma asked. “That’s weird.”  
  
“Hockey’s a weird sport, Swan.”  
  
“Just this team, I think,” she muttered.

“Your team.” Emma nodded, lips pulled tightly back behind her teeth so she didn’t actually start to cry or display some absurd level of emotion. “And I’m sorry too,” Killian added.

“For?”  
  
“I like you,” he said simply. She understood what he meant.

“Everyone’s always left,” Emma whispered. “So I started making sure I left before anyone could, before I could get my…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Heart broken again.”  
  
He was still holding her hand. Emma had almost forgot, fingers laced together tightly and his thumb moving across her wrist and it all felt so normal she hadn’t even remembered he was still touching her until he squeezed her hand again.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Swan, but I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
“You’re glad to hear I got my heart broken?”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, tugging her hand back up and she barely heard him when he spoke again, voice mumbled just a bit with his lips pressed up against her knuckles. “If it can be broken, it means it still works.”  
  
Her heart must have taken that as some sort of personal challenge – beating out faster than it ever had and Emma’s lungs suddenly felt too small again, incapable of doing their biologically-determined job.

He wasn’t done talking.

“I’m sorry we’ve been all over the place, Swan. I think we’ve broken every rule either one of us has tried to set in the last month and a half and we could stop this right now and move back into some sort of strictly professional relationship, if you want. I’ll still coach the game and you can put my face on every t-shirt if you want, but…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But I kind of hate the idea of not kissing you.”

She moved, table pressing into her stomach uncomfortably, but Emma barely gave herself half a second to consider the pain a single piece of metal could inflict on her organs before she felt Killian’s lips on hers and then she didn’t think about anything except that.

And how much she hated the idea of not kissing him.

“You said relationship,” she mumbled.

“Isn’t it?” he asked and she didn’t miss the question within the question, the unspoken bit of hope in his voice.

He’d been broken just as much as she had.

“I think so,” Emma whispered.  
  
She kissed him before he could see the emotion on her face and no one said anything when they walked back into the Garden together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelz on feelz on feelz on MORE BACKGROUND. Thank you guys so much for all your clicks, comments and kudos. It continues to mean the world. As always @laurenorder makes this all better. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	18. Chapter 18

“You’ve got to do it again,” Ruby sighed, rolling her eyes as she leaned up against the side of the lockers on the far wall of the room.

“What?” Robin balked. “Why? That was great.”  
  
“That was horrible.”  
  
Killian scoffed, leaning forward to try and lace up his skates. They’d been going on like this for what felt like hours – it might have actually been several days – and he wasn’t really sure where Ruby fit into the entire equation except to drive Robin insane.

“Ruby,” Robin continued, rolling his eyes as he held the team-provided microphone loosely in his hand. “We have a walk-through to get to. We can’t sit around filming this stupid thing all afternoon.”  
  
“Several things. First of all, this stupid thing, as you put it, was your guy’s idea and now, because it’s hysterical, the fans want it. So you’re going to give the fans what they want, Locksley. I don’t care how long it takes. Arthur can cut his walk-through short for all I care. Emma’s got to be able to tweet this out and get it on the site at some point in the next twenty-four hours.”

Ruby glanced over her shoulder at Emma, and Killian tried to mask his laughter at the look on her face – far too aware that it hadn’t really worked. Robin glared at him, leaning forward to hit his thigh with the microphone and Ruby groaned dramatically.

“I didn’t even feel that,” Killian muttered. “I _am_ wearing pads.”  
  
Robin groaned before looking back up at Ruby. “Your list was one thing, Lucas. That’s not even a list.”  
  
“You’re not going to win this argument,” Emma mumbled, taking a step around Ruby to sink onto the bench next to Killian. She glanced around Robin to stare expectantly at Phillip the Rookie, his shoulders sagging just a little bit with the weight of actually not being very good on camera. “C’mon, Rook,” she said. “Just enunciate a bit more when you answer the questions and you guys can get out on the ice and Arthur won’t kill us all.”

As if on cue, Arthur walked into the locker room – already dressed for the game against the Penguins in four hours and Killian was a bit surprised he wasn’t at pre-game media. He held up his hands when he took another step forward, head darting from side to side as he took in a team that wasn’t anywhere close to being ready for walk-throughs.

“What the hell is this?” Arthur asked to no one in particular.

“Your rookie sensation sucks at filming,” Ruby answered, clicking her fingers towards the small camera crew that had taken up residence in the locker room for the last few hours. Or possibly several sunlit days.

“He doesn’t get paid to film your promotional videos. He gets paid to score goals.”  
  
“And he can do that. Once he films my promotional videos.”  
  
Killian chanced a glance at Emma, who was already shaking her head, doing her best to look encouraging when Phillip the Rookie opened his mouth to try and apologize – again.

He really wasn’t very good.

It was a Rangerstown promotion – something they did a few times a season that inevitably amused the entire fandom and resulted in gif sets on the internet. ‘Locked in with Locksley’ was the dumbest title for a five-minute question and answer video, but this wasn’t exactly high-brow art either.

It was Robin walking around the locker room with a microphone that wasn’t actually hooked up to anything, demanding answers out of his teammates to the most mundane questions imaginable. They hadn’t done one yet this season and Ruby had demanded it _had to happen_ and Arthur didn’t really have a leg to stand on.

No one really did when it came to arguing with Ruby Lucas.

This round of filming was focused entirely on Thanksgiving. Or maybe just holidays in general? Killian had stopped listening when Emma walked in and did that thing where she shifted her weight on her heels and tapped out a slightly impatient rhythm on her hip, as frustrated by Phillip the Rookie’s inability to talk on camera as everyone else, but determined to be as supportive as ever.

He had, after all, agreed to coach her charity game before she’d even got the question out completely.

Three weeks into the season and she’d organized at least half of the event and Killian found himself constantly awed by her – the way her eyes narrowed just a bit when she focused or how she’d rather sit cross-legged on the floor of her office, plans and papers strewn around her, than be stuck behind her desk because, as she put it, _it was easier to think that way._

Three weeks into the season and he still hadn’t actually come out and said that she’d flipped the entire world upside down, but no one had suggested another set-up to him either and they seemed to be getting the hang of under the radar.

Emma had come home with him after the Boston game.

And the Rangers were winning – riding a six-game streak with an almost unheard of margin of scoring that had analysts already suggesting that this _really_ was the year.

He was happy.

Arthur groaned again, but Ruby smiled triumphantly when the cameraman moved back in front of Robin. She’d won and the argument hadn’t even lasted that long.

“You’ve got ten minutes, Lucas,” Arthur said, not even bothering to wait for a response before he practically marched into his office.

“Alright,” Ruby said, clearly aware that she had as much time as she wanted. “Rook, listen to me.”  
  
Phillip the Rookie’s head snapped up and his eyes were wide when he met her gaze. Emma sighed. “If you mumble over these words again, I’m going to make sure Jones cross-checks you into the boards during walk-throughs, you understand me?” He nodded quickly and Killian was halfway to the locker before he realized his feet were even moving.

“Just answer the questions honestly, kid,” he said, glaring at Ruby. She shrugged. “And maybe, you know, try to actually look like you’re not being led to the guillotine or something.”

Phillip’s laugh wasn’t really a laugh, more a quick exhale of air that was as shaky as his voice had been on camera, but Killian clapped him on the shoulder and even Robin nodded encouragingly.

It took two more takes before he got it right.

“You’re up, Jones,” Ruby said, nodding towards the camera crew as they shifted slightly to their right until he started blinking from the lights.

“I think you’re confusing sports analogies.”  
  
“Clichés, right?”  
  
“Puns?”  
  
“It’s definitely analogies,” Robin argued, knocking against Killian’s side when he sat down.

“I don’t think that’s right.”  
  
Killian saw Ruby move her hand again and they were absolutely filming – the red light just out of his eyeline making it almost painfully obvious. Ruby always did that, especially during these very specific type of PR moments.

It was something to do with chemistry or working well together or that way they always seemed to know where the other one was on the ice, but it might have also been because they spent far too much time together.

Fans liked that or something.

“What are you wearing?” Killian asked, nodding towards Robin’s feet.

The camera panned down and Robin made an indignant noise in the back of his throat, hitting Killian with the microphone again. “It doesn’t matter. Hey! Hey! This is my interview. Camera back up to our faces.”  
  
“Are those crocs?”  
  
“We’re in a locker room!”  
  
“Get this on camera,” Killian said, pointing back down to the floor. “Look at them, they’re even blue.”  
  
“Everything on this team is blue. There’s, like, a law about it.”  
  
“Why do you own those?”  
  
“They’re comfortable,” Robin argued. “Not all of us just wear loafers in a locker room. And you’re making this interview very difficult.”  
  
“I’m hardly wearing loafers. I’m not even wearing shoes. I am, literally, wearing skates right now. Or I would be if you let me actually lace my skates.”  
  
“Whatever. They’re comfortable. You’re obviously not comfortable enough in your own fashion choices since you’ve got to make fun of mine. I know what’s happening here anyway. You’re just trying to show off for the fans, some sort of freewheeling bachelor lifestyle that prohibits you from comfortable footwear.”  
  
Killian sat up a bit straighter, eyes darting towards Emma before he could stop himself and she was tugging on the ends of her hair. Ruby grinned even wider.

“Ask me about Thanksgiving, Locksley,” Killian muttered, nudging his shoulder against Robin. “You’re a God awful host.”  
  
“I am the best host. Alright, alright, fine. Tell me your most disgustingly adorable Thanksgiving tradition.”  
  
“How do you know it’s disgustingly adorable?”  
  
“Because I have seen your family on Thanksgiving and, I can promise, it is disgustingly adorable. Now come on, Cap, spill. Fans are clamoring to know or something.”  
  
Killian laughed, decidedly ignoring Emma’s gaze. He could feel her eyes on the side of his head – sitting next to Phillip the Rookie now that his own stint on ‘Locked in with Locksley’ was finished.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew there was something she still wasn’t telling him – something about everyone leaving and a broken heart and how she’d cut herself off when she started talking about growing up.

He hadn’t asked about it, despite the curiosity almost constantly tugging at the back of his mind, but it felt a bit like bragging when he talked about the Vankalds and he could be an ass sometimes, but even Killian knew he was a lucky one.

“You just have that many adorable family moments?” Robin laughed, tapping the microphone against the front of his chest pad. “Can’t pick one off the top of your head?”

“Liam is only allowed to make stuffing,” he said and he didn’t do a very good job of enunciating the words either. “And it’s absolutely boxed stuffing no matter what he tells everyone. He’s not capable of doing anything more.”  
  
“How’d he end up with that job?”  
  
“He tried to make actual stuffing when were kids. It caught on fire. Seared his eyebrows off when he was fourteen.”  
  
Robin nearly fell back into the locker he was leaning against and Killian could hear Will’s laughter as well, camera shifting suddenly as it tried to capture the moment. “What about you, Cap? What’s your designated Jones family job?”  
  
“The drinks,” he said. “But that’s only because El refuses to let either one of us near the oven on most national holidays. She’s still concerned about Liam’s eyebrows.”  
  
“That’s my job too,” Phillip the Rookie shouted and the entire team groaned as one collective unit.

Robin stared into the camera, a distinct lack of emotion on his face before he narrowed his eyes slightly and muttered something that sounded a bit like _he picks out the juice boxes for the kids table_. “Leave the kid alone,” Killian muttered, not entirely certain when he became the sole off-ice protector of Phillip the Rookie.

“Captain pushover.”  
  
“I’m just not an asshole to the rookie.”  
  
“Jones,” Ruby sighed, head falling forward until her chin brushed over the front of her very red jacket. “Now we’ve got to edit that.”  
  
“No swearing in front of the kids, Cap,” Will laughed, pushing Killian to the side of his own bench in front of his own locker. “Rol would be scandalized.”  
  
He shook his head, but looked up to find Emma smiling at him, fingers completely still against her side. “Oh,” Ruby shouted, clicking her fingers again. Will nearly fell off the bench. “Locksley ask them about your first Thanksgiving in New York. We’ll tie it in with Phillip’s almost properly enunciated comment and then we can cut out Jones’ complete lapse in on-camera judgement.”

Robin did as instructed – far too aware that he didn’t really have a choice – and they talked about that first season and how they’d all gone downtown. Robin and Will had been on their own in New York – traded and called up, respectively – and, as with most things, the Vankalds had taken them in, brownstone doors metaphorically and literally flung open on that first major holiday in the league.

Liam made stuffing.

And it kept happening for the next two years.

Robin met Regina at the brownstone, their third season in the league, just a few months before Liam got hurt.

Her father knew Mr. Vankald – something about business that Killian had never listened to and Robin had never cared about, far too concerned with impressing the woman sitting at the dinner table with tales of his on-ice exploits. She wasn’t impressed.

At least not at first.

It didn’t matter to Robin. He asked for her number that night and she gave him her card – a move that was _so_ Regina, it somehow still managed to make Killian smile – and she showed up at the arena for the first game in December, seats in the team suite next to a barely one-year-old Roland and the nanny.

They didn’t say any of that on camera.

“Are you done yet, Lucas?” Arthur shouted a few minutes later, leaning out of the door of his office at the other end of the locker room.

“Yeah, we’re done,” she answered, smiling at the three of them for the first time all afternoon. “You think we’re good, Emma?”  
  
She nodded, hands still on her side and a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. “Absolutely.”

Arthur must have sprinted down the hall, chest heaving just a bit when he skidded to a stop next to the still-present camera crew. He paused for half a moment to readjust his tie and then he turned on Ruby, eyes flashing with a frustration that he usually saved for practice and breakaway goal competitions.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Lucas,” Arthur said slowly, “but get the hell out of my locker room.”  
  
Ruby didn’t blink, smile inching across her face slow enough that it almost looked like a threat and Killian was on his feet a moment later, walking back down towards the training room. His eyes landed on Emma and he barely even had to move his head before she muttered something to Ruby about _letting them get ready for the Pens_ and the camera crew started to shuffle back towards the offices and a few hours of pre-game editing.

“You are painfully obvious, you know,” Emma muttered, stopping next to him and bumping her shoulder against his.

“Ah, well, tell that to you smiling at me the entire time we were filming. I think it’s you who’s making things painfully obvious, love.”  
  
“Whatever,” she mumbled, fingers moving against the fabric of her dress. He caught her hand in his, thumb swiping across her palm until her fingers stilled and he could feel her looking up at him. “You’ll be careful, right? Tonight?”  
  
Killian squeezed her hand once, nodding. “He can’t afford to hit me,” he said, ignoring Emma’s quiet scoff. “He can’t, Swan. They’re already six points behind us. They need a win. If he fucks it up by making this some sort of vendetta to upper-body me, then they’re going to lose and he’ll get sent back down.”  
  
She made a noise that sounded as if she wasn’t entirely convinced that Hans Soyer wouldn’t turn this game into some sort of vendetta to upper-body him, but she didn’t pull her hand out of his either. Instead she twisted around, gaze serious and the toes of her shoes hit up against the front of his skates.

“He said stuff,” Emma continued. “In the Pittsburgh papers, A showed me yesterday.”  
  
“I don’t care about that.”  
  
And he didn’t. He didn’t need bulletin board material when he had a win streak to maintain and a breakaway-goal promise he still hadn’t fulfilled. Soyer could say he was the worst player to ever lace up skates and Killian would still go out there anyway.

He had a game to win.

And he might be the most competitive person in the entire world.

“Henry will be here too,” Emma said. “He’s coming with Reese’s and David.”

“Seats in the suite?”  
  
“With Regina and Rol.”  
  
“Rol will be thrilled,” he promised, free hand coming up to rest on the back of her neck. “Bring them uptown with you later.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You were going to come uptown later weren’t you?”  
  
“Well, yeah, but that’s like a team thing.”  
  
“And you’re part of the team, Swan. Bring your friends with you. Henry too. He’ll go nuts.”  
  
He’d done it mostly to see her reaction and she didn’t disappoint, all bright eyes and wide smile as if she couldn’t quite believe what he’d said.

He meant it.

“That’s probably true,” she admitted.

“See, perfect plan.”

“Yeah only because you came up with it.”

“I’m well aware that wasn’t a compliment, but I’m going to take it as one anyway,” Killian laughed, leaning forward to kiss the top of her hair.

Emma swatted at him, mumbling under her breath and he somehow managed to smile even more. Jeez. He was an over-emotional mess, barely treading water in whatever pool of _feelings_ he’d found himself in.

“You’re really not going to say anything stupid to him tonight, right?” Emma asked, voice falling back into _serious_ quickly.

“Why do you think that I would?”  
  
“Because that’s exactly what you did the last time.”  
  
The last time she wasn’t sitting in the team suite with a GD kid who seemed to idolize him or Roland Locksley and _Emma_ hadn’t been there and, somehow, that seemed to make all the difference. Killian didn’t say that out loud.

“I promise, Swan,” he said and she shifted a bit when his fingers moved across her neck.

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second,” she whispered, words cutting into him and across him until they seemed to settle in that black hole just under his left rib that he was certain would always remain empty.

Emma’s hand fell on the front of his jersey, fingers gripping the lettering that ran across it just a bit tighter than normal and he could hear when she took a deep breath.

It was a balancing act of sorts – and there was a bigger meaning there that Killian wasn’t entirely interested in thinking about a few minutes before walkthroughs and warmups and the anthem and skating against Soyer on Garden ice – back pressed up against the hallway wall and weight resting on the edge of his skates.

His hand fell on top of hers, pulling her fingers away from the _RANGERS_ emblazoned across his chest and he made sure to hit every one of her fingers with his lips before he looked back up at her. Her eyes were wide.

“I would despair if you did.”

* * *

He kept his promise.

It was, however, not particularly easy.

Soyer, it seemed, was determined to get him to drop gloves again – a goal made all the more difficult by the fact that he wasn’t actually a very good skater and, since the season started, had found a home for himself on the Pens fourth line.

He wasn’t on the ice at the same time as Killian much, but he made sure to seize his opportunities whenever he could, knocking into him during line changes and shouting things from the bench and connecting on a pretty powerful slash during a penalty kill that sent him to the box and gave the Rangers a 5-on-3.

Phillip the Rookie scored easily.

And the Pens coach might have actually had an aneurysm on the bench.

Killian didn’t say anything, didn’t hit him back or even lift his head when he heard something that sounded like _it’s your fault_ again – he needed to come up with new insults. And they were winning.

At least for now.

Six minutes left in the third, up by one and Killian groaned when he heard the whistle blow, head rolling back as he saw the referee move to center ice and announce Phillip the Rookie had drawn an interference.

He tried not to actually glare at the kid as he skated towards the box, shoulders hung just a bit lower than usual, and moved back towards the zone, knees bent just outside the faceoff circle. The crowd started chanting and he could feel his blood pulsing in his ears – and it far too early in the season for this.

It wasn’t even more than a few games into the schedule, but they were on this streak and Emma was sitting in the suite just above section 111 and he’d shown off before. He wanted to show off a bit now.

Robin won the faceoff, puck cleared out of the zone with ease and the crowd cheered again as Killian retreated into his PK spot, stick moving quickly in front of him when one of the Penguins skated back up the ice. He dumped it off to Soyer and, _of course,_ of course he was their point man, because he might have been the worst skater on the ice, but he had a hell of a shot and he could probably hit Jefferson’s facemask off if he really wanted to.

They couldn’t clear it.

And his legs actually felt like they were on fire, each movement sending a shockwave of pain up his thighs and the Penguins just kept passing it.

Forty-five seconds into the power play and they hadn’t taken a single goddamn shot. The cheers had turned to jeers quickly, blue-shirted fans wholly unimpressed with the lack of effort and Killian probably would have joined them if he could find any energy.

Will finally got his stick down in between a passing lane, arms barely moving enough to send the puck down to the other end of the rink and they had just enough time to make a change and get the second unit out.

Killian heard him with perfect clarity when he climbed over the boards – Soyer’s voice sounding as if he was just sitting next to him on the bench. “Looking a little slow to the puck out there, Jones,” he shouted. “Not a good look in an FA season.”  
  
“And what would you know about FA seasons?” Killian called back. “You’ve never been on a team long enough to get more than year-long deal.”

“Fuck you, Jones.”  
  
“Eloquent as always, Soyer.”

Arthur yelled something and they’d managed to clear the puck again, Killian’s legs moving before his mind caught up, swinging over the boards and back on the ice as the Penguins dumped the puck in the zone.

And he’d found some extra energy somewhere in between the shouting and the argument that wasn’t anything more than Soyer trying to get under his skin. He moved to the edge of the blue line, Will pressed against the boards in the corner as he tried to work the puck free and Killian nearly snapped his stick in half when he hit it against the ice.

Will heard him – or maybe heard Robin yell _up_ and _short_ – backhanding out of the zone and Killian was already moving by the time the puck hit the blade, Soyer nothing more than a shadow behind him.

He’d always been fast – quicker on skates than even Liam – but the problem with being fast on skates was making sure you didn’t fall over and when he first started playing, Killian had a tendency to fall over.

His legs, as Liam would say, worked faster than the rest of his brain.  
  
He was always half a step ahead of himself, thinking about the goal before he’d even taken the shot. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it absolutely didn’t.

And he’d gotten better at it – older and more experienced and he could skate as well as ever now, that deep-rooted desire to _prove_ himself taking control of his life as soon as he’d lost everything else – but there was always that other voice in the back of his mind, the one that remembered cut up knees and lost edges and skating faster than everyone else was just as terrifying as it was exciting.

Killian could hear the crowd, the cheers and the noise and something that sounded like Robin yelling _shoot,_ but he didn’t have the angle and there was a Pens player closing in on his left, a blur just on the edge of his vision.

It all played out in front of him before it actually happened, the move so obvious he nearly groaned that he hadn’t taken it already, and there was half an inch of space on the right side of the net. His legs hurt and his feet hurt and he hadn’t skated that fast all season, but he moved anyway, backhand to forehand and he took the shot.

He’d stumbled a bit when he pulled the stick back, momentum pulling him forward until his knee was almost dragging across the ice, but he saw the puck hit the back of the net and the light went off and the crowd was louder than they’d been all night.

Killian spun out, back colliding with the glass and he was dimly aware of fans hitting up against the boards behind him when he started shouting, Robin and Will racing towards him until they both ran into his side.

“Shit, Cap,” Will muttered, voice barely audible over the goal song and the always impressively coordinated cheers that followed. “What a move.”  
  
“You are a child,” Robin laughed as they moved back towards the bench and the cheers didn’t stop even after the song ended. Soyer was already off the ice, no stick in his hand and a two-goal lead with just a few minutes on the clock was enough to keep the win streak alive.

“Fast enough for you?” Killian asked, nodding up towards the enormous screen over center ice and the replay of the goal.

Soyer didn’t say anything.

And, somehow, that was better than fighting.

They named him first star again and there were people actually standing when he skated back, hand in the air and Killian didn’t even grumble when they gave him the hat and forced him to pose for social media photos in front of his locker.

“You coming up later?” Robin asked, tossing his jersey into the laundry bin behind him.

Killian nodded, scrolling through his regularly-scheduled, post-game messages and he laughed softly when he found Liam’s visual exclamation of **LOOK AT THAT SPEED**. He’d sent it during the game.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Is there a GD kid coming?”  
  
“Eh, I don’t know that he’s really much of a GD kid anymore,” Killian said, typing out a quick response to Liam. _That’s just years of practice from skating circles around you._

“Have you and Emma adopted a GD kid?” Robin asked and the smile on his face was proof positive he was joking, but something in Killian’s stomach flipped at the question. It was Henry’s third game of the season already – they’d gotten him tickets to the Bruins game for his birthday – and he wasn’t really lying, he wasn’t some charity case.

That sounded worse than Killian wanted it to.

But Henry’s story hit a bit too close to home for any actual comfort and somewhere in the last few weeks, Killian and Emma had seemed to come to some unspoken agreement that they were going to do whatever they could to make this kid happy.

He’d nearly fallen over when they told him about the charity game.

“Rol was excited to have another kid up there,” Robin said, voice taking on a very particular tone and Killian felt that same overwhelming sense of being _protected_ or something equally absurd. “So he’s coming, then?”  
  
Killian nodded again, glancing down when his phone vibrated in his hand again. “Yeah, we’re not going to just kick him out,” he muttered, drawing a laugh out of Robin as he hitched his bag up his shoulder. “And Swan’s friends are coming too. They were in the suite with Gina and Rol.”

Killian swiped his thumb across his phone screen, barely even glancing at the name. He probably should have.

**The first Pittsburgh Penguins jersey ever retired was number 21 and the team has had an impressive 11 players inducted into the Hall of Fame. They were probably all embarrassed by how badly you beat the PK.**

He nearly choked on the air in his lungs, shoulders heaving forward when he tried to keep his face even. Robin did his best not to notice. “You want to split a cab?”  
  
“No,” Killian said quickly, far too quickly not to draw suspicion. “Um...I just...my hand and Red wanted to make sure it was fine after the game.”  
  
It was a lie.

It wasn’t even a very good lie.

And Robin knew it. He didn’t say anything, just glanced down at the phone in Killian’s hand and stuck his lower lip out thoughtfully.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you up there.”

Killian nodded again – his neck was going to cramp up at some point, he was sure of it – and waited until he couldn’t hear the squeak of Robin’s sneakers before he moved, grabbing his own bag out of his locker and making his way out of the room.

He moved on half a chance and the hope that, maybe, she didn’t care about under the radar as much as he didn’t anymore and he almost sighed when he was three quarters down the hallway and didn’t see her.

He stuffed his phone back in his pocket and tugged the strap of his bag up, muttering under his breath when he realized he’d have to find a cab on his own.

“Sharp shooting, sailor.”  
  
Killian spun on the spot, bag sliding back down his arm until it landed on the floor and, for what must have been the sixth time that night, his legs were moving before they’d even caught up with his mind, the only thought _Emma_ as soon as he saw the smile on her face.

“I think you’ve got that analogy confused, love,” he muttered, pushing her back against the wall until her hips pressed against his and heard her sigh softly. “I hardly think sailors are doing a lot of shooting. And I don’t think I’d make much of a sailor.”  
  
“Pirate, then?”  
  
“Probably something like that,” he said, ducking his head until she made _that_ noise again when his teeth skimmed across her neck. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Not happy to see me?” Emma asked and he appreciated the way her voice caught just a bit more than he probably should for a relationship that was, still, decidedly under the radar. Except for the two people they’d told.

And probably Robin. Robin totally knew.

That meant David probably knew too. Mary Margaret wouldn’t be able to lie to David.

“That’s not even close to what I was asking,” Killian said. “I just figured you would have gone uptown already.”  
  
“I told them I needed to do some post-game stuff, get that Rangerstown video out.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Nah, I told Mer to do it before the third period even started.”  
  
“That’s deceptive, Swan.”  
  
“What are you doing here? Robin left on his own.”  
  
“I told him Ariel wanted to double check on my hand.”  
  
“Look who’s being deceptive now. At least my lie checks out.”  
  
“I was kind of thinking on my feet.”

“Ah, well, then I guess you can have a pass,” Emma laughed, one of her fingers twisting through the loop of his pants. He was the one who groaned that time, eyes squeezing shut when she moved up on tiptoes, lips just half an inch away from her ear. “And, after all, you did follow through on my breakaway promise.”

“Short-handed.”  
  
“That ego,” she said, kissing against his neck as he dug his teeth into his lip. “It was a nice move though. Henry and Rol nearly lost their collective minds.”

“I wasn’t really doing it for them.”  
  
“No? Who for then?”

“You, Swan,” Killian answered and he wasn’t even surprised at how easy it was to say the words.

She didn’t sink back on her feet, just pulled her hand forward and he braced himself above her, palms flat on the wall on either side of her head. One of them must have moved first, but they’d both come up with lies on the off chance that the other one was, somehow, still in the Garden, so it seemed almost possible that they moved at the same time as well, lips crashing against each other and hips moving of their own volition.

He pulled one hand down, palm wrapping around Emma’s waist as he pushed underneath the jacket she had on and maybe they didn’t have to go uptown.

They were expert liars anyway.

Robin totally knew.

“You want to split a cab?” Emma asked, mumbling the words against his mouth. He didn’t even try to mask his laugh, pulling back to find her smiling at him again and doing anything except kissing her seemed like some sort of absurd idea.

He kissed her first.

“Doesn’t that kind of fly in the face of our under the radar, Swan?”

“We’re fantastic at lying.”  
  
“You’re a horrible liar.”  
  
“You want to make out in the back of the cab or not?”  
  
“Let’s go,” Killian said, slinging his arm over her shoulder and walking them towards the team exit.

* * *

“So you two just ran into each other?” Regina asked for the fourth time, clicking her tongue as Roland crashed into Killian’s leg.

“Yup,” he answered easily. He bent over to grab Roland by the waist, twisting him around until he was horizontal over his shoulders. “Weird, huh?”  
  
“The weirdest.”  
  
Killian couldn’t really shrug with a six-year-old draped over his back, but the sentiment was obvious and Regina lifted one eyebrow. He glanced to the far corner of the restaurant where Emma was sitting at the end of the bar, Henry next to her as she talked to David and Mary Margaret. Ruby moved in her direction, Ariel close on her heels as they both started shouting about _the game t-shirts_ , trying to pull Mulan into the conversation to talk about the possibility of making Killian and Phillip the Rookie pose for brand new shots so they could tout the shirts as limited edition.

“You went really fast today, Hook,” Roland mumbled, laughing when Killian shook his shoulders.

“It was a good move,” Regina conceded.

Killian gasped dramatically, working another laugh out of Roland, and Regina rolled her eyes, taking a particularly long sip of the drink in her hand. “Was that actually a compliment, Gina? I’m stunned.”  
  
“You’re an ass, that’s what you are.”  
  
“Gina,” he cried, not quite able to keep the laughter out of his voice. “The children!”  
  
She rolled her eyes again and made a face that didn’t particularly match up with the position on her business card and the very sensible pant suit she had on. “I’m just saying, it’s a good kind of game for this season. If you want to stick to your plan and you’re still determined to go, then this kind of showing is good for that.”  
  
Killian tensed at her words and she obviously didn’t realize what she’d said, face as impassive as ever when it came to discussing _the dumbest decision in the history of dumb decisions._ They hadn’t talked about it in weeks, not since the preseason and, well, a lot of things had happened since the preseason.

He hadn’t really considered Colorado since the opener...since Emma came home with him and for the first time in as long as he could remember it actually felt like home.

“Where are you going, Hook?” Roland asked.

“Nowhere mate,” Killian said quickly and Regina _did_ react to that, eyebrows moving up her forehead so quickly he was certain there should have been a trail of smoke behind them. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“What?” Regina snapped. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Gina.”  
  
She widened her eyes and dragged her hand through the air, but didn’t ask anymore questions, just downed the rest of her drink. “Come on, Rol,” she said, tugging on the back of his jersey. “Let’s go see if we can find your dad.”  
  
Roland’s head snapped up at that, twisting around until he nearly kicked Killian in the head. “Henry said we could get onion rings before.”  
  
Regina hummed and it wasn’t exactly an agreement, but it wasn’t a disagreement either and Killian saw his in. “If the kid was promised onion rings, it seems just wrong to deprive him of that, Gina.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah, that’s totally why you want to go get onion rings.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You need to get better at lying.”  
  
“What are you lying about, Hook?” Roland asked, tapping on the back of his shirt.

“Nothing, mate,” he promised. His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the lie and if Regina didn’t actually blink soon he was going to scream. “So you liked Henry, huh?”  
  
“Thick as thieves,” Regina muttered, pushing through the crowd towards the far end of the bar. People seemed to just spring backwards whenever she looked in their general direction. “They’re very excited for the charity game.”  
  
“Henry said we could go out on the ice,” Roland said quickly, shaking against Killian’s back. “And you’re going to coach and you should pick dad for your team.”

Will groaned, dragging a stool with him despite Ariel’s rather pointed glare, slumping down in the middle of the group with a plate held tightly in his hand. “Come on, Rol,” he said. “You can’t abandon me now too. First they told me I can’t coach and now Cap’s not even going to pick me for his team?”  
  
“No one said that,” Killian muttered, rolling his shoulders as Robin pulled his kid back down towards the ground. He glanced towards Emma, back pressed up against the wall of the restaurant with a smile on her face. “Isn’t that right, Swan? You’re picking teams anyway, aren’t you?”  
  
“Oh, no, no,” she laughed. “Don’t put this on me. You guys are the hockey players you decide.”  
  
“Maybe we’ll let Bobby Flay decide.”  
  
“Is Bobby Flay official?” Mary Margaret asked and it would have been impossible to miss the pride in her voice.

Emma nodded, the ends of her mouth twisting up as Mary Margaret and Ruby screamed at the same time and the exact same pitch. “Jeez,” Will muttered, but Robin smacked the side of his shoulder and he didn’t say anything else.

“Em,” Ruby cried, practically jumping up and down on her absurdly high heels. “That’s incredible. When did you find out?”  
  
“This afternoon. His people called my people or whatever. His assistant’s assistant called Mer a few hours before we shot Rangerstown.”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We had a video to shoot,” Emma shrugged, drawing an immediate groan out of the half a dozen people around her. “And he’s still got to sign the contract and we’ve got to get the insurance to get him out on the ice or something. Don’t actually cross-check Bobby Flay when he plays, ok Scarlet?”  
  
Will made a soft noise of indignation, but he nodded anyway and Emma smiled even wider. “If we’re nice to him,” she continued, “maybe he’ll even agree to cater Reese’s and David’s wedding.”

“See, now, that makes sense,” David agreed.

“Hey,” Ariel shouted, leaning back against the curve of the bar when Eric handed her a fresh plate of onion rings. She passed them to Roland without a word – he grabbed one in each hand. “I thought we decided we were going to do it.”  
  
“Well, to be fair, you’re not going to do it. Your husband is.”  
  
“And I’m not married to Bobby Flay.”  
  
“He’s going to play in Emma’s charity game though.”  
  
“David you are literally surrounded by the Rangers first line,” Emma laughed as Mary Margaret shook her head fondly. “I don’t think you need Bobby Flay to get an in.”  
  
“How’s the view from the suite anyway?” Killian asked. David’s head snapped towards him as if he was surprised by the question and his eyes darted towards Emma before he responded.

“Awesome, actually,” he said. “I mean we’re kind of behind the net, but you can see the whole ice. It was a perfect view for your goal.”  
  
“Don’t tell him things like that,” Regina muttered. She pulled one of the five onion rings Roland had in his hands away from him, smiling at him when he grumbled. “It’s just going to do dangerous things to his ego.”  
  
“It was a really good goal.”  
  
“Thanks,” Killian said softly, a glass pushed into his hands. He took it without question – another rule broken. They’d all have to lie to Arthur.

“We should probably toast or something, huh?” David asked, glancing around at the group as Ariel continued to pass out alcohol.  
  
“Well, we did completely screw over Soyer,” Robin said, grabbing his own shot glass and ignoring Killian when he pointed towards Roland. The six-year-old was far too preoccupied with onion rings and Henry to notice. “Did he say anything this time?”  
  
“Grizzled veteran,” Robin chuckled. “What exactly are we toasting then? Just the win?”

“The goal obviously,” David said, seemingly forgetting any sense of fandom as he took over control of the after-game event. “It was a ridiculous move. Who normally toasts for you guys?”  
  
“Your move.”  
  
David blinked once and Killian could feel the heat creep up the back of his neck, the room feeling a bit too crowded and a bit too overwhelming and his eyes drifted back towards Emma as her surrogate brother toasted the breakaway goal he’d absolutely scored for her. She scrunched her nose slightly when they clinked glasses.

He downed his drink in one gulp and he was half convinced the tiny fire he felt in the pit of his stomach had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

They stayed in that corner for hours – planning for the charity game and making promises to both Roland and Henry and even setting up an entire menu for David and Mary Margaret’s post-Cup run wedding.

He didn’t move, far too aware of where his hand would land if he was actually standing next to Emma, but he could feel her gaze on the side of his head throughout the night and Killian would have been lying, again, if he said his eyes didn’t dart her direction every few seconds.

She kept smiling. And laughing. And she was talking to Ariel and even Regina and Will kept making jokes about how he was going to take down Phillip the Rookie during the charity game, even if it was a charity game.

Henry left before Roland fell asleep, muttering when the woman from the house downtown pushed her way into the restaurant and he only smiled when Killian promised updates from the road swing they had ahead of them.

And when Roland finally did fall asleep, curled up against Killian’s side when he’d crawled onto his legs, the crowd in the restaurant started to disperse, yawning and cracking bones and they had a flight to DC the next afternoon.

“Come on mate,” Killian said, lifting his leg off the bottom rung of the stool when Robin approached him. “You’ve got to go home.”  
  
He saw Emma out of the corner of his eye, smile soft and eyes just a bit more tired than usual as Robin hauled his son off Killian’s legs. “See you tomorrow,” Robin muttered, shifting Roland so his head was in the crook of his neck and Killian nodded, not quite able to quell that rush of _jealous_ he felt in his toes.

“Bye Hook,” Roland mumbled.

“Bye mate.”

She waited until Robin was out the door, one arm wrapped around Roland and the other wrapped around Regina and it all felt a bit deja vu. Killian tried not to sigh, but he knew it didn’t work as soon as Emma tilted her head, eyebrows raised slightly.

Under the radar.

They had to stay under the radar.

He was a selfish, sentimental ass.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“You’re absurdly good with Roland,” she said, taking a step into his space until her thighs hit his knees and she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Henry too, but Rol is just like...obsessed with you.”  
  
And for as bad as Emma was whenever someone complimented her, Killian might have been even worse – rolling his eyes to try and mask the flush he was certain had creeped up his cheeks. “That’s just experience, Swan. And the twins are young too, so I’ve got a fairly jam-packed resume.”  
  
“How old are they?”  
  
“Four.”  
  
“That sounds exhausting.”  
  
“El and Liam are ridiculously good at it. Those kids want for nothing, I swear.”  
  
“Probably because their uncle’s so impressive on the ice.”

He quirked one eyebrow and her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Another compliment, love? That’s some kind of record.”  
  
“Were you keeping track?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Emma laughed softly and her fingers found their way into the bottom of his hair, tugging just a bit until he had to lean forward. He didn’t argue, particularly when she kissed him quickly, hardly enough, but they were still in the restaurant and Mary Margaret was waiting expectantly for Emma at the door.

“She was distracting David,” Emma explained, grinning in Mary Margaret’s direction. “He’s out there talking to Will.”  
  
“You’re some kind of actual saint, Mary Margaret,” Killian said, just loud enough that he was certain she could hear it.

“It’s only because your goal was so impressive,” she answered. Emma laughed, forehead falling forward against his shoulder and his arm found its way around her waist.

And it might have felt the most _normal_ it ever had, easy and comfortable and he should probably say something meaningful at some point before he did something stupid like screamed he loved her right in her face.

“I’ve got to go,” Emma mumbled against his shirt.

“I should probably sleep before our flight tomorrow.”  
  
“Let me know when you land?”  
  
“Of course, Swan.”  
  
She pulled up – eyes still tired, but she was smiling at him and she hadn’t actually pulled away from his arm. “It was a really good goal.”

Killian knew they were still _whatever_ , under the radar and Mary Margaret was playing some sort of scout at the restaurant door and he’d probably have to lie about who he was texting the next day and Emma still had walls and there was that whole pesky Gold connection in Los Angeles, but he absolutely loved her and he couldn’t just not say anything.

“It was for you, Swan,” he said softly. “For whatever that’s worth.”  
  
“A lot,” Emma answered. “It’s worth a lot.”  
  
She kissed him once before she left, rushing across the restaurant and Mary Margaret smiled in his direction before the door closed behind them.

He was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotion-based goals are obvs the best types of goals. And Killian Jones would total be the most obnoxious trash-talker on the ice. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for the response to this story or @laurenorder for reading all of it and fixing all of it. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	19. Chapter 19

Thanksgiving might have been her least favorite holiday.

Or maybe Christmas.

Her birthday?

Did her birthday count as a holiday?

It didn’t matter. Emma hated all of them. She hated the memories that lingered with each and every one of them, the waiting and the hoping and the _wanting_ that came every holiday, the idea of a family to share it with or remember to buy her a birthday present, hanging in front of her like some sort of universe-based tease.

Thanksgiving was some sort of _idea_ for her while she was growing up – pictures of an actual turkey and homemade stuffing and more desserts than she could possibly eat in one sitting – and it never actually happened that way in the half a dozen houses she’d been shipped to from the time someone signed her birth certificate until she turned eighteen.

There was no family.

There was no home.

There wasn’t even a pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving was just another day and most of the kids in the half a dozen houses Emma had been shipped to hardly even recognized it.

It wasn’t until that last house and the could-have-beens that Emma even allowed herself the idea of a tradition and four walls that felt a bit more like home than anything else ever had. So, naturally, it didn’t work. And, of course, she refused Mary Margaret’s invitation to come home to that tiny town in Maine with her for Thanksgiving weekend the next year.

Emma ate microwave mashed potatoes in her dorm room and watched Miracle on 34th Street by herself.

Mary Margaret dragged her home with her every year after that, David never too far behind, and somewhere along the way the three of them started making pies. Every year. Just...an absurd amount of desserts.

No one ever asked about it. No one ever really talked about it. They just started baking that first Thanksgiving in that tiny Maine town, walking to the grocery store before commandeering the Blanchard family kitchen.

Emma couldn’t get back to New York for Thanksgiving the year before – swamped with in-season obligations and flights from LA weren’t cheap – and she still made pumpkin pie, adding a bit more cinnamon than David would ever allow.

She ate it by herself after the Kings beat the Sharks and watched Miracle on 34th Street.

“You ok?” Mary Margaret asked, sinking onto the couch next to Emma until their shoulders brushed. Emma glanced over at her, apron tied tightly around her waist and a pen somehow stuck in her hair and, of course, she was making a list.

Mary Margaret was nothing if not consistently organized – even on a holiday.

“Of course,” Emma said and it was almost completely true. She hated Thanksgiving, hated holidays and picture-perfect families she didn’t have and this year would be no different.

Ruth was coming and there’d be wedding talk and wedding plans and Emma would probably have to try on her bridesmaid's dress at some point. And then there’d be even more wedding talk and questions about the team and when Mary Margaret and David were going to start having kids, a not-so-subtle reminder that Emma was still sleeping on their couch.

They’d all be there and Emma would, once again, be on the outside looking in, some sort of fifth-wheel in a Blanchard-Nolan family dinner.

At least she wouldn’t be eating pumpkin pie by herself.

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue and Emma could hear her argument as clearly as if she’d actually said the words. She didn’t really have to.

She could probably read Emma’s mind at this point.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mary Margaret said without any sort of preamble and Emma’s eyes widened just a bit at the emotion behind those few words, the certainty and the way her voice got a little bit harder, like she was willing Emma to understand.

“Ah, well, you can’t throw your kid out on Thanksgiving,” Emma replied glibly. Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. “That’d just be insensitive.”  
  
“I am nothing if not a pool of sensitivity.”  
  
“That’s actually very true.”  
  
Mary Margaret knocked her shoulder against Emma’s, a timer going off in the kitchen alcove. She jumped off the couch as quickly as she’d arrived, pen flying out from behind her hair and Emma leaned forward to grab it, stuffing it into her own loose ponytail as she followed, the smell of pumpkin pie hitting her like some soft of holiday brick wall.

She needed to work on her sensitivity.

They’d made the pie that morning – David actually shaking Emma’s shoulders when he woke her up and she swatted at his knees until he left her alone, laughing and shouting about _sticking to the schedule_ as he went.

She threw flour at him, leaving a distinct handprint on the back of his shirt that he didn’t notice when he left to go pick up Ruth and Mary Margaret hadn’t been able to entirely hide her smile at the two of them. They laughed and Emma dumped in half a container of cinnamon and Mary Margaret, somehow, got nutmeg in her hair while all three of them tried to get a taste of the batter without the other two looking.

They made four pies.

Four pies.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, twelve-year-old Emma who dreaded Thanksgiving and all the things she knew she’d never get, jumped for joy at the moment and these people and the almost-home she’d found.

Almost.

That might have been why she’d been grumbling so much.

She was terrified.

She was happy.

Happy and terrified and it was making it very difficult to get a full night’s sleep on some sort of consistent basis.

Nearly two months into the regular season and the team’s six-game win streak had been snapped two weeks ago – in D.C. after Killian’s short-handed breakaway goal made SportCenter’s top 10 – and they’d started a new streak, riding a five-win performance into Philadelphia that weekend.

And they still hadn’t really _told_ anyone, kept their distance during post-game at the restaurant and tried their best not to even look at each other when they crossed paths at the Garden, but it wasn’t really working.

She was certain half the building had their suspicions now and Robin _definitely_ knew, which meant Regina definitely knew and Ariel probably had some sort of idea and Will might have been the only person on the roster who still believed that whole _friends_ story they’d come up with. Belle probably even knew.

Emma was happy and terrified because she wasn’t quite as nervous to have people know as she had been during the preseason, certain she’d proved herself worthy of this team in some sort of vaguely ridiculous way when she’d gotten Bobby Flay to sign up, officially, for the charity game. She knew she was doing a good job, knew the first line of the New York Rangers believed she was doing a good job and Phillip the Rookie had become a bit of a right-hand man, dedicated and determined to help however he could when it came to planning the charity game. He tweeted about it every other day.

She was doing good work. And she knew it.

But she also knew that she was starting to think things, big, overwhelming, _important_ things with capital letters and it had only been a few months.

It didn’t make any sense at all.

It didn’t – and then he’d send her a text and it’d be the most ridiculous fact about whatever city they were in or a direct quote from Arthur that was just so absurd Emma’s entire body would shake with laughter and maybe it would almost make sense.

She was happy and terrified of what could happen if that changed.

Mary Margaret pulled open the front of the oven and the smell of pumpkin pie increased tenfold as Emma jumped onto the edge of the counter, swinging her feet out in front of her. If she was going to play the role of child in this family, she was going to do it well.

“David’s going to freak when he sees you up there,” Mary Margaret muttered, but she still couldn’t really hide her smile.

“Not nearly as much as he’s going to freak out when he realizes we started eating pie without him,” Emma countered, leaning forward to open the drawer next to her knee. She grabbed a pair of forks and held them out to Mary Margaret who stared at them like she was being challenged with the toughest dilemma in the history of the world.

“We’ll probably burn our tongues,” she said.

Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Probably. But it’ll be a very enjoyable burn.”  
  
“Such a rebel.”  
  
“Come on, Reese’s, live on the edge a little bit.”  
  
“I think you just want pie.”  
  
“That is absolutely true.”

Mary Margaret laughed, grabbing one of the several dozen pot holders she inexplicably had in her apartment and grabbed one of the pans, dropping it on the counter next to Emma’s leg. She didn’t say another word before she started eating, humming in the back of her throat at the mix of far-too-hot dessert and how ridiculously good the three of them had gotten at making pumpkin pie.

“This is good,” Mary Margaret mumbled as Emma knocked her fork against her hand, trying to work out her own spot in the pie. “We should open a bakery.”  
  
“When would we even find the time?”

She shrugged, taking another bite of pie. “Ah, I don’t know. Maybe when we’re all old. The three of us will be all crotchety and wrinkly and we’ll buy some tiny building and we’ll open a bakery that only serves pumpkin pie.”  
  
Emma knew what she meant. She was a rational human being. She knew Mary Margaret wasn’t trying to insult or question or do anything except make Emma laugh at the idea of the three of them being wrinkly and still, somehow, baking pumpkin pie.

She knew all of that.

Her mind, however, didn’t really care.

Because her mind heard the _three of them,_ Emma still the third wheel even when they were crotchety and wrinkly, and her heart might have actually stopped beating at the idea of never quite getting what she wanted.

Mary Margaret glanced curiously at her, eyebrows drawn low and Emma silently chastised herself for ever thinking that the woman in front of her – who, nearly two months into the season, hadn’t even asked when Emma was going to consider getting her own place – could ever mistakenly say something that was anything less than completely supportive.

“You ok?” Mary Margaret asked again, putting her fork down on the counter.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said quickly. “I’m just glad I’m here too. I missed the pie.”  
  
Mary Margaret smiled at her, reaching forward to squeeze her knee tightly and Emma felt some of her nerves and anxiety dissipate at the movement, something particularly familial about it and maybe she didn’t hate Thanksgiving quite as much as she just hated being alone.

“You say that now,” Mary Margaret laughed, “but wait until Ruth forces you to try on your bridesmaid’s dress because she just won’t be able to picture it without actually seeing you in it. Then talk to me about missing the pie.”  
  
Emma scrunched her nose, grabbing another forkful of pie before she felt certain she’d be able to answer without bursting into tears at the same time. “That’s alright,” she mumbled. “Anyway you’re the one who’s going to face the brunt of the wedding-focus this weekend. Ruth’s going to have an opinion on every single dress you even look at.”  
  
“Don’t remind me.”  
  
“Reese’s! That was almost very close to some sort of mother-in-law stereotyping.”  
  
“You’re the one who said it, I was just agreeing to it.”  
  
“Seems like you just finally found a way to express your pre-wedding frustration. Did you finalize your menu with Eric?”  
  
Mary Margaret nodded, taking another bite of pie and they’d eaten at least a quarter of it already. “Once I convinced David that we absolutely couldn’t get Bobby Flay. He seemed to think you’d just be able to convince him to cater a reception right there in Central Park.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve got that kind of sway with Bobby Flay.”  
  
“You got him to agree to actually play in the game though.”  
  
“That is not even remotely the same as catering your reception in Central Park. Plus, you don’t want to do that Reese’s, think of all the paperwork you’d have to fill out.”  
  
She made some sort of serious noise, but neither one of them could stop smiling or eating pie and this might have been the one they’d added rum too. “So if I ask you something right now,” Mary Margaret started, staring at the fork in her hand, “will you absolutely freak out?”  
  
“Depends on what it is, I guess.”  
  
“Were you going to bring a date to the wedding?”  
  
Emma dropped her fork, metal clanking loudly on the floor when it landed and she tugged on the bottom of her team-branded t-shirt. Mary Margaret made a face, shoulders sagging just a bit as she tried to mutter a quick apology. “Have you told him yet? About...everything?”

“No,” Emma said, shaking her hand. Mary Margaret’s face didn’t change. “I know. I _know,_ but every time I think about it my jaw locks into place and he’s got all of that Reese’s. A family and some sort of ridiculously close relationship with his sister and he’s so good with Roland. It, like, blows my mind every time I see it. I can’t just march up to him and announce the reason I’m so weird about it all the time is because I never had any of that. It’s not exactly the most romantic conversation in the world.”  
  
“Are you trying to have a romantic conversation?”   
  
“Reese’s.”   
  
“That’s a legitimate question.”   
  
“If you’re trying to find out whether there have been any sort of declarations, the answer is no.”   
  
It wasn’t a complete lie – neither one of them had actually said _it_ and why would they? It had only been a few months and they were in the middle of the season and the team was on a five-game win streak. No one had time for declarations in the middle of a five-game win streak.

But then Emma’s mind would race back to the opener and the morning and the way his eyes had changed just a bit when he stared at her, promising _until I met you._

It wasn’t a declaration, but it still made her stomach clench and her pulse stutter and Emma found she kept thinking of that moment more and more.

Mary Margaret wiped off the fork, handing it back to Emma with an apologetic smile and another muttered apology. “You can’t be scared forever,” she said.

She took another bite of pie – far too big than she probably should have and this was _definitely_ the one with rum in it – and nodded slowly, exhaling loudly. And Emma was half a breath away from maybe just telling Mary Margaret every thought that had been running through her mind for the last two months, every want and hope and this all felt a little on the nose for Thanksgiving, but she didn’t get a chance.

Her phone started to ring.

“If that’s Mer with some sort of community relations emergency,” Emma sighed, sliding off the counter and stalking back towards the coffee table. “I’m actually going to throw a fit.”  
  
“They don’t play until tomorrow, right?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma hummed in agreement, not even looking at the name when she swiped her thumb across the screen and pressed the phone up to her ear with her shoulder.

It was not Merida.

There was no community relations emergency.

“Did you know that the first Thanksgiving Day parade was held in Philadelphia in 1920?”

Emma felt the smile on her face as soon as she heard the question and she fell over the back of the couch, head bouncing up a bit on the cushion as her legs hung over the side. “I did not know that,” she said. “Are we doing holiday-themed facts now because I’m not sure if I have a Thanksgiving appropriate Flyers fact.”

“Nah, Swan,” Killian laughed. “This was just a coincidence.”  
  
“Good timing.”  
  
“I thought so.”  
  
“Why’d you call?” He didn’t answer immediately and Emma swung her legs back over the couch, pushing back up until she was leaning against the armrest. “Killian?”

Mary Margaret made some sort of noise from the kitchen alcove and Emma heard a fork fall again. She waved her hand through the air, focusing on the phone still pushed against her ear and the distinct silence on the other end.   
  
“I’m not near anyone,” he said softly and she could hear the note of disappointment in his voice even several hundred miles away in Philadelphia. “Locksley’s off FaceTiming with Gina and Rol and Belle actually just showed up at the team hotel so she and Scarlet are doing...whatever. We’ve got film later and then some sort of team dinner and I’ll talk to El and Liam and the twins after. I just figured…”  
  
He was babbling, voice picking up a bit with nerves and emotion and Emma bit her lip tightly at the rush of that one word she kept trying to pointedly ignore as his voice shot through her entire system. “Killian,” she cut in. “It’s fine. I wasn’t...I didn’t care if you were near people. I just, well, you usually text facts. That’s all.”  
  
There was silence again and for half a moment Emma actually thought the call had cut out. Until he started talking again.

“I just…” Killian said slowly and she heard him take a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
She bit her lip tightly, smiling in spite of herself when Mary Margaret tried to prove how _busy_ she was in the kitchen alcove. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Maybe Thanksgiving wasn’t that bad after all. “So you know how the Flyers were an expansion team?” Emma asked.

“I was aware of that, Swan. If that’s your fact, it pales in comparison to mine.”  
  
“Hey, wait two seconds before you pass judgement on my fact.” He laughed on the other end of the phone and Emma could practically _see_ the smirk in front of her. And maybe she wished she could see the smirk in front of her. Or maybe wished she’d just shown up in Philadelphia. “The Flyers were an expansion team,” Emma continued, “but no one thought they were going to be in Philadelphia. Most people thought the league was going to give the expansion to Baltimore and everyone was super surprised when they didn’t get a team.”  
  
“Super surprised?”  
  
“Super.”

He was smiling. She knew it.

And Mary Margaret was building some sort of pots-based castle on the other side of the apartment, just to show how much she absolutely, positively was _not_ listening to this conversation.   
  
“What is that noise?” Killian asked.

“Reese’s,” Emma answered, glancing over her shoulder to find Mary Margaret crouched in front of one of the lower cabinets. “She’s trying to distract herself from listening to me share very impressive hockey facts with you.”  
  
“Was my fact not impressive? It was timely.”  
  
“I’m not listening,” Mary Margaret shouted, actually sitting on the kitchen alcove floor now. “I’ve got pie things to be worried about.”  
  
“Did she say pie things?” Killian asked, laughter obvious now and Emma rolled her eyes before falling back down on the couch.

“She did,” Emma said. “Four pies to be specific.”  
  
“Four? Did you make pies?”  
  
“Well, we all made pies if you want to get technical. It’s a thing. This year, however, we tried something different and one of the pies has a fairly substantial amount of rum in it.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly on the other end and Emma’s smile probably took up half her face at this point, the muscles in her cheeks rebelling from sudden overuse. “That sounds good,” he said. “The Vankalds were always very big on apple.”  
  
“Tell him we’ll save him some rum pie,” Mary Margaret called, grumbling just a bit when the pots and pans she’d pulled out of the cabinet didn’t actually fit back into the cabinet. “Or he can just buy some when we open our bakery.”  
  
“What was that, Swan?”

“Ah, Reese’s has decided we’re opening a bakery. Specializing in just pumpkin pie apparently.”  
  
“That’s very specific.”  
  
“We’re going to corner the market,” Emma said and her next words were out of her mouth immediately and without much thought and she nearly bit her tongue in half when she realized. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking to invest in a bakery that only makes pumpkin pies, some with a questionable amount of rum in them, would you?”

“Sure.” It didn’t even take a full breath for him to respond. “Gina will be thrilled. At least now I’ve got some sort of post-hockey plan.”  
  
Emma’s stomach did something she was certain was impossible, clenching and twisting and possibly landing on the floor, but she was also certain he was still smiling and he wanted to talk to her.

He’d called her.

_Until I met you._

“He’s in,” Emma said to Mary Margaret and she hummed in approval. She hummed in a way that practically screamed _take him as your plus-one to my wedding_ as well, but Emma didn’t let herself consider that for too long.

One vaguely overwhelming question at a time.

The front door swung open and David glanced at Emma, still sprawled out across the couch, while Mary Margaret continued to wage a one-woman war with the cabinet. “We’re here,” he announced, a bag hanging off his shoulder. Ruth wasn’t far behind as they both moved their way into the apartment, weighed down with even more bags and, probably, more baked goods.

“You got to go?” Killian asked.

“David’s mom is here.”

“Ah.”  
  
“They’re all going to want to talk about wedding plans and I’m probably going to have to put my maid of honor dress on.”

“Tortuous, Swan.”

“Well, we already ate half the rum pie, so maybe it won’t be that bad.”  
  
“I’ve got faith you can handle it.”  
  
“Yeah?” she asked, voice catching traitorously on the few letters. David was still staring at her.   
  
“Yeah.”

Emma licked her lips, suddenly dry and maybe she should just _tell him_ , a metaphorical fountain of human emotion and Thanksgiving hate and she couldn’t do that now – not when Ruth was already going on about how _lace was so in at the moment_.

“Let me know if Scarlet actually calls Belle his girlfriend during this team dinner later, ok?” Emma asked and he laughed again.

“Of course, love.”

* * *

Lace was, apparently, very much in at the moment.

It was everywhere. On every dress and every veil and Emma was certain both her and Mary Margaret’s eyes were going to get stuck if they kept rolling them at every dress they spotted covered in lace.

They had rolled their eyes almost non-stop all afternoon.

“What about this one?” Ruth asked, holding up _another_ lace-covered dress. This one had a train.

Mary Margaret couldn’t quite turn her gasp into a cough quickly enough and Emma moved in front of her, tugging the hanger out of Ruth’s hands and handing it back to the attendant who never seemed more than a few inches away from them.

“It’s a little long,” Mary Margaret said, always trying to find a positive even in a dress that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale.

“Do you have something for outdoor weddings?” Emma asked, turning on the attendant who widened her eyes in surprise when addressed by anyone who wasn’t Ruth.

“You want to get married outside?” Ruth cut in. Mary Margaret blanched, going the same shade of white as, at least, half the dresses in yet another very expensive bridal boutique.

Emma made a face, doing her best not to actually roll her eyes again. She was going to give herself a headache.

“Um,” Mary Margaret stuttered, glancing quickly towards Emma. “Well, yeah, we were thinking Central Park actually. There’s a castle there.”  
  
“Belvedere,” Emma added and Ruth was practically beaming in the middle of this very expensive bridal boutique. “For twenty bucks.”  
  
“That’s just for the permit,” Mary Margaret explained. Ruth’s mouth was hanging open now. “We were just thinking we could do something before it got too hot and, well, it is a castle. And there’s a restaurant near our apartment that we love and we’ve got a theme and…”

Ruth moved quicker than Emma had ever seen her move before, lace dresses forgotten as she threw her arms around Mary Margaret and tugged her towards her with a soft _oof._ Emma didn’t roll her eyes at that.

“That sounds perfect,” Ruth whispered, voice just a bit strained with the weight of her emotion. Mary Margaret looked like she’d frozen in place.

“Does it?” she asked.

“Better than perfect. I’ve been...maybe a bit overbearing I know.” Emma laughed and, that time, Ruth rolled her eyes. The boutique attendant was still standing behind them – three dresses propped up in her hand.

“That’s alright,” Mary Margaret said quickly.   
  
“Reese’s,” Emma sighed.

Ruth shot her another apologetic look. “I’ve just always considered you part of this family for so long,” she continued, nodding towards Emma as well. “And I wanted it all to be perfect for both you and David, but you’ve already made sure that it will be. I only want the two of you to be happy. Where’s this restaurant? Near your apartment?”  
  
“A couple of blocks away,” Mary Margaret said. “We’re actually going there later tonight to watch the game. It’s kind of the team haunt.”   
  
“Emma’s team?”   
  
Emma felt her stomach flip at that particular turn of phrase, pressing her lips together tightly. It wasn’t like she’d thought about how the captain of that team had _called her_ the day before or how she was absolutely going to wear his numbers to the restaurant again later that night.

She didn’t think about that at all.

“Plus a castle’s pretty cool,” she added, smiling at Mary Margaret as Ruth wrapped her arm tightly around her shoulders.

“Absolutely cool.”  
  
“Did you want to try on any more dresses today?” All three of them snapped their heads up at the attendant’s question, eyes going wide almost immediately when they spotted the dress hanging in front of them.

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret answered breathlessly, eyes zeroing in on a dress that didn’t have any lace, but might actually have feathers.

It didn’t have a train.

“That one,” Emma and Ruth said at the same time.

It took a few minutes in the dress – which did, actually, end up having feathers – for Ruth to declare it was _the one_ and if it had been a TV show Emma probably would have been featured as that one friend who hated weddings, but teared up when she saw the bride in her dress and her veil.

She absolutely teared up.

And Mary Margaret bought the dress.

“You’re really not going to tell me anything about it?” David asked later that night, perched on one of the stools in the corner of the restaurant.

Mary Margaret shook her head. “You can’t just try and break the rules like that,” Emma said, knocking her knuckles across his shoulder. “Bad luck.”  
  
“Yeah I’m not into that tradition.”  
  
“That’s because you’re impatient.”  
  
He shrugged. “Yeah, well that’s true.”  
  
“At least you’re honest about it,” Emma laughed, bracing herself when she saw a streaking Roland Locksley moving across the restaurant towards her. Her left knee buckled anyway, breath knocked out of her just a bit when his head collided with her side. She bent down, brushing Roland’s hair out of his eyes. “Hey Rol,” she said. “How was your Thanksgiving?”  
  
“We haven’t had it yet.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“We always wait for Robin,” Regina explained, hand falling on Roland’s shoulder. “We’ll do the whole thing on the off day tomorrow.”  
  
“Who’s that?” Roland asked, nodding towards Ruth. “Is she your mom, Emma?”  
  
Mary Margaret froze and Emma gripped her drink a bit tighter than she probably should have, threatening to crack the glass in her hand. Regina glanced questioningly at her and, of course, she did – it was an unnatural reaction to a simple question.

But it was Thanksgiving weekend and they’d spent all day trying on wedding dresses and Emma was somewhere in the realm of maybe, _maybe_ , feeling as if she’d settled out of that never-ending transitional period her life seemed to always be in. She should have gone to Philadelphia.

She should tell Killian the truth.

“Hey,” David laughed, stepping in to diffuse the situation as he ruffled the top of Roland’s hair. “Don’t go giving my mom away, Rol.”

Emma exhaled and the tension fell out of her shoulder blades as quickly as it had come, eyes darting towards Mary Margaret who reached forward to grab her hand. David bent down, grabbing Roland around the waist and dropping him on the edge of the bar, grinning as the six-year-old started laughing, the sound louder than just about anything else in that very loud restaurant.

“And just who are you, young man?” Ruth asked, holding her hand out to a still-giggling Roland when a plate of onion rings just happened to appear next to him.

“Roland Locksley,” he said matter-of-factly. The game started before he could say anything else and, suddenly, Roland Locksley didn’t care about anything except the team on the screen behind him, spinning on the top of the counter with Regina’s hand hovering protectively behind his back.

“His dad’s on the first line,” Emma explained to Ruth, one eye on the screen as the anthem began. She fidgeted with the bottom of her t-shirt, tugging on a loose string and this weird, constant nervousness she felt during games was frustrating.

It’d be fine.

The win streak would be fine.

She absolutely did not care about the win streak.

Ruth nodded like she understood what Emma was talking about, gaze moving over her shoulder and then back to the t-shirt. “Oh,” she said, smile tugging on her mouth. “With your guy, then?”  
  
“What?”

Mary Margaret was frozen again.

“Well you’re wearing the same jersey as that other guy on the ice. You know him?”  
  
“I mean, I know all of them,” Emma said lamely, not quite as combative as she’d hoped it would be.

“Emma always wears Hook’s number,” Roland said, not even bothering to turn away from the screen as Robin won the opening faceoff.

“That so?” Ruth asked.

Emma rolled her eyes, head falling onto her shoulder and it was almost astounding how bad they really were at under the radar. She should probably stop wearing his number. This was, absolutely, her fault.

“Don’t,” she said, but Ruth didn’t lower her eyebrows and the smile didn’t fall off her face.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”  
  
“Yuh huh. You’ve got that look.”  
  
“What look?”  
  
“That one where you think you know what’s best.”

“I know absolutely nothing, Emma. You haven’t actually said anything.”

And Mary Margaret probably was some sort of actual superhero, because she swooped into the conversation exactly when Emma needed her the most – bordering dangerously close to just shouting _Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, and I are totally dating and we’ve been dating for months_ – in the middle of the restaurant.

Ruth was occupied with wedding conversation for the rest of the period – huddled together with David and Mary Margaret and Eric and a catering menu Emma hadn’t actually seen yet. She grabbed the stool next to Roland, tugging on the side of his jersey.

“How’s it going?” she asked, nodding towards the screen and the zeroes on the TV scoreboard.

“Ok,” Roland muttered. He sounded like an analyst. “Arthur got really mad at the third line when they nearly gave up a really easy shot, but Jeff saved it. And Uncle Will’s been checking that one guy a bunch of times. They almost dropped gloves.”  
  
“Something we’ll have to have a talk with Uncle Will about,” Regina muttered from Roland’s other side. “He’s been doing that far too much tonight.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly and she should have known immediately – as soon as she heard about the fighting and dropping gloves.

It had all been going far too well.

Philadelphia was moving into the zone, skating toward Jeff and Will moved to cut them off. It didn’t work. He didn’t get the right angle and the Flyers winger skated right around him, fast enough that Will lost his edge.

And Emma was certain she could actually _hear_ the crack when he slammed into the boards – skates first.

There was a collective gasp across the restaurant and Roland practically jumped up, barely able to keep his balance when he started screaming at the TV. Regina didn’t even try to get him to sit back down.

Will didn’t get up.

The play kept going and the Rangers were on the other side of the ice and the camera panned back to him – crumpled in a heap against the boards.

Jefferson was the first one to realize – and Emma refused to consider the idea that it was only because he heard Will screaming – dropping his stick and skating behind the net as Robin and Killian raced back down the ice.

Will still hadn’t moved.

Victor was out on the ice, crouched down over Will’s back and they hadn’t even tried to shift him around at all, leg bent out at an angle that was anything but medically appropriate. Emma couldn’t really breathe and Roland was still yelling.

Her hand had fallen on his back almost unconsciously, holding onto his jersey tightly as the restaurant remained frozen, eyes wide and mouths open and, _God,_ Belle was in Philadelphia.

“You want to take a walk, Rol?” she asked, glancing towards Regina. She nodded – get him away from the TV and the restaurant and the shell-shocked New York Rangers front office before they inevitably carted Will off the ice.

He still hadn’t moved.

“Come on,” Emma continued, wrapping an arm around Roland’s waist and momentarily marveling at how easily Killian regularly just threw him over his shoulder. Roland didn’t argue, cheeks just a bit tear-stained now as he kicked his feet out over the front of the counter.

They stayed outside for the rest of the first period and the entire intermission and Emma was decidedly out of her element.

She wasn’t _not_ a kids person, but she’d never particularly been a kids person either and that was mostly a product of inexperience and years spent in apartments that were always silent when she got home from games.

It was never quiet in New York.

Roland, however, didn’t seem to notice her nerves, sniffling just a bit as he leaned against her. They hit their stride after the second question – what position he was going to play when he, finally, made it to the NHL.

It was easy after that.

They talked hockey and the team and Stanley Cup hopes and even delved a bit into first-grade academics, Roland’s voice picking up just a bit when he started talking about the book they were reading that week.

Emma’s heart might have sputtered just a bit at that.

“Em,” David said, leaning out of the front door of the restaurant. “Second period’s about to start. If you guys want to come back in.”  
  
She nodded once, Roland’s head not moving away from her side. “Yeah, we’ll be there in a second.”  
  
The win streak got snapped that night – no one seemingly able to find their footing once Will was off the ice and the announcers only brought it up again once, something about a lower-body injury as if that wasn’t almost painfully obvious.

Ariel spent the majority of the night on the phone with Belle, providing updates to the entire restaurant. They’d taken Will to the hospital.

Emma was quiet on the walk back to the loft – Ruth sent back to her hotel in a cab with a slightly sympathetic look on her face – and she couldn’t really do anything work-related until she got confirmation on the injury and how long he’d be out and it was a waiting game she didn’t particularly enjoy playing.

David hugged her as soon as they walked into the living room and she exhaled loudly against the front of his team-branded shirt, not even arguing when his hand found its way around the back of her head. She just kept breathing and made sure she didn’t actually leave his shirt too damp when she finally moved her head away.

“It’ll be fine,” David promised.

“Haven’t we done this before?” Emma asked. “I feel like this has happened before.”  
  
David shrugged. “This is my job,” he said simply and, for the second time in as many hours, Emma’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Get some rest, Em.”  
  
She didn’t fall asleep right away – or at all, really – twisting and turning and glancing at her phone every five seconds for the response to the text message she’d sent as soon as Mary Margaret and David were out of earshot.

**It’s going to be ok** **_._ **

She hadn’t really considered what she was writing, just knew she had to send _something,_ couldn’t just let him sit on the team bus back from Philadelphia without some sort of message or support and if talking to Roland was decidedly out of her element, this was practically some other emotion-based universe.

And he didn’t message back.

It must have been somewhere in the realm of two in the morning when the knock came, nearly scaring Emma out of her skin as she sat up, eyes roving across the pitch black living room like whoever was knocking on the door would suddenly appear in front of her.

The floor creaked when David appeared behind her and Emma actually laughed when she saw him holding a bat in his hands.

“You’re a giant cliché,” she said.

He just made a face in response, Mary Margaret a few steps behind him with a bathrobe tugged tightly in front of her. The knock came again, but it wasn’t quite as strong that time. A possible murderer wouldn’t have knocked like that.

“Where did he even get a bat?” Emma asked, glancing back at Mary Margaret who just waved her hand through the air.

“The precinct has a pickup softball league in the spring. He thinks he’s the greatest player on the team.”  
  
Emma scoffed again and David hissed for both of them to _shut up, God_ as he moved towards the door slowly, hand hovering over the knob. “David, jeez,” Emma whined. “Just open the goddamn door.”   
  
“Don’t move,” he said, falling into _police voice_ as he swung open the door and all three of them gasped in unison when they saw who was on the other side of the threshold.

He was still wearing his league-mandated suit, but the tie was a bit loose, like he’d been tugging on it the entire bus ride from Philadelphia or the cab ride he probably had to take from the Garden to get uptown.

“Hey,” Emma said, moving off the couch before her mind had really caught up with the sight in front of her. It took five steps to cross the entire living room, hand falling on the front of Killian’s shirt. David’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out of his head.

Maybe they had been ok at under the radar.

Or maybe Mary Margaret was just exceptionally talented at running under the radar relationship interference.

Killian wrapped his fingers around Emma’s hand and his shoulders visibly moved when he took a deep breath. He looked exhausted.

And she realized, rather suddenly, she might not be the only one who always hated Thanksgiving.

“David,” Mary Margaret said softly, tugging the bat out of his hand and resting it against the side of the door. “Come on.”  
  
“But that’s….”  
  
“Yeah, yeah it is. Come on.”  
  
They were gone half a moment later and neither Emma nor Killian had actually moved, hands wrapped up in each other. He hadn’t said anything yet.

The absence of Mary Margaret and David seemed to wake him up though, fingers tightening just a bit as he sighed. “I’m sorry, Swan,” Killian said.

“What? Why?”  
  
“This is the exact opposite of under the radar. I just...it was bad. They think it’s broken in a couple different places and Belle was...it was bad.”  
  
She gripped the front of his shirt, fabric pressed in between her fingers, and took a step forward, pushing him out into the hallway. They were going to do this.

Emma Swan was going to talk.

“How did you get up here?” she asked, resting her back against the wall just to the right of the door.

“Ariel. I got your text and I kind of...wanted to be here. I shouldn’t have…”  
  
“No,” Emma interrupted, shaking her as she turned on him. He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes, staring at his shoes and she hadn’t even put socks on. God, she was an idiot. “Don’t...don’t do that. I’m glad you’re here.”  
  
“Yeah?” Killian asked and there it was again – the question within the question. Emma nodded, tongue brushing over her bottom lip before she sank her teeth into the edge.

“Like a lot.”  
  
He smiled at that, nerves not quite as obvious when he finally glanced up at her and Emma tried to find some sort of courage she wasn’t entirely convinced she actually had when he kissed the top of her forehead. “I, um,” she muttered, “I want to tell you something. Or explain something. Or I don’t know.”  
  
“What’s the matter, Swan?”

“I hate Thanksgiving.”  
  
She was off to a banner start. Eventually they were going to have one of _these_ conversations and Emma wouldn’t just blurt out half sentences and half explanations. Killian blinked, head pulled back just a bit as he waited for her to continue.

“I hate Thanksgiving,” Emma repeated. “Because I never really had a Thanksgiving when I grew up. I, um, didn’t really have anything.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“You were very lucky,” she said and she tried not to let the accusation into her voice. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

“I know that. What does that have to do with Thanksgiving?”  
  
“You asked me before about living in so many places?” Killian nodded slowly, hand finding its way back to Emma’s. “That’s because I wouldn’t have been able to get parental permission to go on the ice either. What I mean is...I got shipped around a lot. Foster system and then for awhile I was a ward of the state and I never...I never liked Thanksgiving. I was in six different group houses and eight different states by the time I turned eighteen. This time of year...it was always kind of a reminder of what I didn’t have and wouldn’t have and that’s why.”  
  
Killian didn’t say anything for an eternity and Emma blinked quickly, trying to will the telltale signs of emotions from actually falling down her cheeks. It didn’t work. His thumb brushed under her eye, wiping away tears and his hand lingered, fingers pushed into her hair and wrapped around her neck and she’d never been more glad someone had shown up at her best friend’s apartment door in the middle of the night.

“Why what, love?” he asked.

“I’m jealous.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly and tried to come up with the right words. “You know they sent me back?” His eyes widened and she could practically feel the anger rippling off him, the sudden shift in emotion taking her off guard.

“Yeah,” Emma muttered. “I was nine and I was in Pennsylvania. They were going to adopt me. They wanted me. Until they found out they were going to have their own baby and suddenly taking in a nine-year-old that was already just a bit jaded didn’t seem quite as appealing anymore. So they sent me back. Same thing happened in Minnesota. Or, well, kind of. The papers were almost processed and it was really more a formality, I was almost eighteen, but it was the idea, you know?

She left. The papers were supposed to get approved in like a month and this lady, the one who’d promised to give me a home and a family and _everything,_ she was just gone. I’d been living in her house already. So they made me a ward and I stayed with a family in Nissawa and all the kids talked and I packed up and left as soon as graduation was over.

That’s why I’m so jealous and why I get so weird when you...when you talk about Elsa and Anna and Liam. I never had that. Not really. Reese’s and David have been close, but they’re their own unit and they’ve got parents and I’ve just always been...Emma.”  
  
Killian stared at her, the intensity of his gaze making Emma shift on her feet and duck her eyes and she shouldn’t have talked that long.

But he’d shown up in front of the apartment door and he wanted to see her and, well, _fuck_ under the radar.

“And why, love,” Killian said, finding some space that absolutely hadn’t existed a few moments before, pushing her farther against the wall. “Would you think that being anything except Emma wasn’t enough?”  
  
Her mouth went dry and her stomach did something impossible and she barely had enough time to take a breath before his lips were on hers, hands lingering on her hips. He moved like he’d been awake for the last twenty-four hours – slow and lazy and _meaningful_ in a way that nothing had ever been meaningful before.

They’d completely fallen for the set-up from the get-go, jumping into kissing and making out across the Garden and then more than kissing and making out in places that weren't the Garden, so quickly Emma couldn’t quite think about it without feeling like she’d completely lost her center of gravity.

It didn’t make sense.

Not in some sort of real-world scenario where there was a Stanley Cup to win and free agency looming around the corner and they were down a defenseman.

It shouldn’t have felt like everything.

It did.

“You’ve got a family,” Emma said softly, tears falling a bit more freely than they had before. “And I don’t even know what that is.”  
  
Killian smiled at her, thumb back on her cheek and his eyes were just unfairly blue. “Now you can,” he said softly.

She nodded, not quite able to actually come up with the words, just gripped the front of his shirt and the lapels of his league-mandated jacket. He’d shown up for her – because the win streak got snapped and Will got hurt and he wanted her.

And Emma couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

Or when she’d ever wanted something back quite as much.

“You really asked Ariel for Reese’s address?” Emma asked.

“Several times until she finally answered, sounding very pleased with herself that she had _known this entire time_ or something. I was only half listening. Strictly speaking I probably should have asked you, but I wasn’t really thinking and I don’t think I’ll be able to get that sound out of my head for weeks.”  
  
She didn’t have to ask what sound – the crack she’d been certain she heard from Philadelphia had been reverberating in her own head for hours.

“So what happens now?”  
  
“They’ll probably call up a defenseman from the ‘Pack. I mean we play again on Sunday, so Arthur doesn’t have a lot of time to make this work.”  
  
“It’s going to be alright.”  
  
“Is that positivity, I hear, Swan?”

She shrugged, but her stomach _fluttered_ and it had been a very weird weekend. “Do you, uh, do you want to come in?” Emma asked, silently cursing herself for stuttering over the words.

“It’s late, Swan.”  
  
“Exactly. And you’re like twenty blocks away and you’ll never get a cab and…”  
  
He didn’t let her finish, ducking his head to kiss her again. “Ok,” Killian said, fingers trailing across the side of her t-shirt. She was still wearing team-branded merchandise. She was still wearing his number.

She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, only dimly aware of an arm around her shoulders and a body underneath her cheek when she woke up. He couldn’t have been comfortable, shoes kicked off so he could stretch his legs across the coffee table and his head slightly tilted back over the edge of the couch, but he hadn’t complained once.

He just sank into the corner of the cushions and tugged her flush against his side, lips brushing over her forehead when he agreed it would be alright.

David, to his credit, didn’t bring the bat back out when he walked into the living room the next morning to find Emma asleep next to the captain of the New York Rangers. He just made pancakes and Mary Margaret made coffee and forced a slice of pie into Killian’s hands, promises that it almost counted a breakfast.

And it wasn’t quite what she’d pictured in those foster houses and group homes when the promise of a family felt like something Emma could never quite get – it was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::throws more emotion at you:: 
> 
> Also, as someone who watched another human being slam into the boards and break his leg in real time last season, it was heinous. It's not great. And all those facts about Philadelphia are straight up facts. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for being so fantastic. @laurenorder makes this better. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	20. Chapter 20

“God how do you even stand this?”

Killian glanced up at Will, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as he tried to take the question seriously. He couldn’t.

Five years and two appointments a week and they’d all chastised him for whining when it came to sitting on a table in Ariel’s office and now Will was complaining even more.

“Scarlet, I swear, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to break your other leg,” Ariel threatened, glaring at him from the opposite end of the treadmill he was barely walking on. Will made a face, grumbling even more as Ariel tapped her fingers on the mile-marker. “You could not possibly be going any slower.”  
  
“I am injured.”  
  
“In several different places it would appear.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, drawing Ariel’s ire for himself and he quickly held up his almost-fist, as if that somehow made him the more worthy PT patient.

“I hate both of you,” Ariel huffed.

Killian held his hands in the air, not even bothering to actually sit up – he’d collapsed on the table in the back corner of the office as soon as he’d walked in, still sore after morning skate and sprints and Arthur screaming at the fourth line for its plus-minus rating the night before.

Back to backs were the actual worst.

“The feeling is mutual,” Will grumbled. They were going to have to do something about that eventually – he kept grumbling and dishing out insults and the only person he didn’t seem to decidedly hate was Belle.

They’d taken him to a Philadelphia hospital after it had happened and Victor was certain the break was clean. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even broken – a fractured fibula and, apparently, that was worse and even just _hearing_ the diagnosis was enough to make Killian’s jaw clench.

Injuries were always a possibility, a likelihood even, in a sport that included blades and ice and he’d never really been one to get squeamish. That was, however, until he’d heard the crack and it had taken an entire lifetime for Will to get up.

It felt a little bit like déjà vu.

He’d texted Ariel without really thinking about the consequences or how late it was or what would happen if he actually just showed up in front of Mary Margaret’s door. He didn’t care. He’d wanted to call her on Thanksgiving and he wanted to see her after it took Will an eternity to get off the ice.

He asked and Ariel made sure to add in several _I knew it_ ’s before finally giving up an intersection and an apartment number. She, thankfully, hadn’t lorded her knowledge over him publicly yet, but Killian was starting to get the distinct impression that it didn’t really matter. They were absolutely horrible at under the radar.

Scarlet was probably the only one who didn’t realize now.

They’d called up a defenseman the next day – Lance Chevalier who was a walking cliché of _eh_ ’s and had probably been a mountie in another life or something. He got to the Garden in just enough time to let the daily’s get their “hero” headlines in on the backpage before the game against Arizona.

The backpages the next day were less kind. And getting progressively worse.

Two and a half weeks after, as _The Post_ so eloquently put it, “the crack heard ‘round the city,” the Rangers were in some kind of pre-holiday slump.

They’d lost five in a row and had fallen out of first place and while Bobby Flay appeared more than ready to get on the ice for the charity game, getting the kids waivers was proving to be some sort of insurmountable task.

And if Ariel was going to kill Will for complaining about PT every other day, then Emma might actually strangle Aurora for every e-mail and bump in the metaphorical road of relating to the community.

He had no idea there could possibly be that much paperwork in the entire world.

Killian’s phone buzzed, nearly falling off the table he was still laying on top of and Ariel shot him a glare. “There are rules in here, Jones,” she said, practically growling out the words. “That’s supposed to be on silent.”

They needed to get out of this slump. Everyone was on some sort of metaphorical edge, liable to actually kill one another sooner rather than later. Arthur was _absolutely_ going to kill them if they let up another power play goal.

“What does it matter if it’s on or not, A,” Will mumbled, glaring at Killian as well and he wasn’t sure when he became the enemy in this tiny little office. “It’s not like he’d answer his phone anyway. You know Anna’s started texting me asking why Cap has sucked so much on the PK over the last few weeks.”  
  
Ariel actually smiled, nearly spitting out the water she was drinking and Killian sat up at that. “Hey, come on,” he sighed, grabbing his somehow still-ringing phone before it could crash on the floor. “Not all of that is my fault. This new guy is garbage.”

Will hummed in agreement – he couldn’t argue that, even if he _was_ trying to make Killian feel bad for the absolutely ridiculous number of power play goals they’d given up in the last two and a half weeks. It was a lot and Lance might have been good in the AHL, but he couldn’t seem to find his bearings on Garden ice.

Or off Garden ice.

Arthur was going to kill them.

His phone stopped ringing and Ariel muttered something about _the rules_ again before it started again – vibrating in Killian’s hand as he finally glanced down at the screen.

Liam. Facetiming. In the middle of the afternoon. Which meant no El and no twins and that meant he wanted to talk. God.

Killian swiped his thumb across the screen and found himself face-to-face with a visibly frustrated brother who, it appeared, had not stopped frowning in the last two and a half weeks. “Your face is going to get stuck like that,” Killian said, tapping on the screen and the tiny indent between Liam’s eyebrows.

“Your PK sucks.”  
  
“Well that’s blunt.”  
  
“And true.”  
  
“It’s totally true, Cap,” Will added, leaning over the front of the treadmill to grab one of his crutches. He hobbled towards the table, ignoring Ariel’s objections, and knocked Killian’s outstretched leg.

“Is that Scarlet?” Liam asked, glancing to the side of the screen as if he’d be able to see out the edge of the phone.  
  
“Nah,” Killian muttered, twisting over the side of the table and turning his phone towards Will. “Just some asshole critiquing the team he can’t play for because he doesn’t know how to skate. It’s not like he’s offering any constructive criticism for the new guy either.”  
  
“Is that we’re calling him? The new guy?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “He’ll go back down once Scarlet remembers how to skate.”  
  
“Can you stop saying that?” Will asked sharply, hitting Killian with the bottom of his crutch again. “I know how to skate. I just didn’t have the right angle and…”  
  
“Sure, sure,” Liam interrupted and the frown was, finally, gone as he smiled knowingly at both of them. “You ok though? Honestly?”  
  
“Is that concern I hear, Jones?”  
  
“Maybe I’m just bored.”  
  
Killian bit the inside of his lip and did his best not to _actually_ look as guilty as he felt – far too certain they’d all be able to see it and then, of course, try to help. It didn’t really matter. Ariel absolutely noticed, one eyebrow raised with her arms crossed lightly over her chest as she leaned against the back of her chair.

It had been getting better – the guilt and the remorse and they’d been winning so there really wasn’t any time to feel anything except good about the entire idea of hockey.

And, his mind added quickly, he was _happy_ in a way that Killian couldn’t remember being happy in years, phone filled with visual proof of that particular emotion – text messages and pictures and that one voicemail he couldn’t bring himself to actually delete, promises that the _PK will get better and the new guy totally sucks and you should just come up here when you get back to the Garden. David bought a brand-new box of Pop-Tarts_.

He’d gone uptown and Emma smiled when she opened the door and they’d stopped even trying to be anything except _together_ when they were around Mary Margaret and David. She’d let him into that little corner of her life, walls not quite as high as they’d been. They were still there, but there might have been a catapult involved now and something about his heart and her heart and it didn’t make a ton of sense, but Killian couldn’t bring himself to delete the voicemail either.

He was happy and he actually hadn’t felt guilty until that moment, the way Liam’s face shifted – as if he couldn’t quite mask the truth entirely. Will even noticed something, eyebrows pulled down low as he grabbed the phone out of Killian’s hand and stared intently at the screen.

Once they’d let him out of the hospital and he’d come to terms with the idea of never playing hockey again, Liam didn’t waste much time – he went back to school and got a degree in business and hung it on the wall next to Elsa’s eighty-two degrees and two seasons later he was working for the league.

He wasn’t quite equipped to sit behind a desk for the rest of his life however, and when they moved to Colorado, he started scouting for the Av’s, taking up permanent residence at college hockey games throughout the season.

It was good. He liked it. He never really complained. And he couldn’t quite mask the lie that he was, decidedly, bored.

Killian took a deep breath, glancing quickly at Ariel, whose sympathetic gaze didn’t do much to pull him out of his quick return to self-pity, as if Liam’s potential boredom or frustration at watching the game instead of actually playing it was his fault. It absolutely was.

“You got a game this weekend?” he asked, avoiding the idea of _feelings_ as quickly as possible.

“Three,” Liam answered and Will let out a low whistle. “Tournament at the Pepsi while the Av’s are out of town. That’s not why I called though.”  
  
“You mean to tell me you didn’t just call to insult our PK?”

“I can’t just call to talk?” Liam asked. “And the PK really is awful. What is it, four goals now?”

“Five.”  
  
“Five is bad.”  
  
“And that’s his professional opinion,” Will added. “Go ahead, tell Cap, Jones. This new guy. From a scout, how bad is he?”  
  
Liam rolled his eyes, but he was almost smiling now and they were, apparently, going to have this conversation whether Killian wanted to or not. “His reflexes are too slow. I don’t know how Arthur can bring himself to put him out there. He must despise him.”  
  
“He was supposed to be good,” Killian argued. “He had ridiculous numbers with the ‘Pack. He’s just...”

“Old?” Will supplied and Killian sighed dramatically. “What? He is. That’s why Arthur sent him back down at the beginning of the season.”  
  
“That’s because you had two functioning legs at the beginning of the season. And Arthur doesn’t like him because they were on the same team in Columbus and Chevalier didn’t pass to him in the postseason and they lost in the first round and it’s been this huge thing ever since.”

“How dramatic,” Liam muttered, drawing a scoff out of Will. “Well, he’s terrible at PK and no wonder you guys are slumping, it’s almost painful to watch.”  
  
“Thanks for that vote of confidence.”  
  
Liam made a face, as far away from apologetic as it was possible to be. “Don’t blame the messenger. I’m just giving you my professional opinion.”  
  
“Not that I’m not super interested in your professional opinion, Liam,” Ariel said, pushing her way underneath Killian’s arm to fit into the frame of the phone screen. “But there’s kind of a schedule here and you’re kind of wrecking it.”  
  
“Hey, A,” Liam laughed, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. “It’s super nice to see you too. Happy holidays. You going to come downtown for Christmas again or should we just not invite you to our family event every year?”  
  
“That’s just rude.”  
  
“Well I don’t want to mess up your schedule.”  
  
Ariel stuck out her tongue, shaking her head for good measure. “No wonder your brother is the way he is, he learned it all from you. And no, I’m not coming downtown to your family event because we only get two days off and Eric and I are going to Nantucket to visit his parents.”  
  
“Sounds thrilling,” Will muttered, widening his eyes at Liam who couldn’t quite make his laugh sound like a convincing cough quickly enough.

“You guys are the worst,” Ariel hissed. “Whatever, I don’t care about the schedule. You guys are going to lose tonight anyway.”  
  
“Jeez, Red,” Killian said, twisting his eyebrows as she hopped back off the table. “That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”  
  
“And probably true,” Liam added.

Killian opened his mouth to argue – not quite certain what he would argue since it was probably true. A five-game skid and a shitty penalty kill and, of course, the Kings were on their East Coast swing on the second game of a back to back.

They were totally going to lose.

He tried to find something to feel even remotely positive about before having to go back to the ice for walkthroughs, but there was a knock on the door before he could. Killian glanced up to see Emma leaning against the doorframe, a pair of sticks in her hand and a pen stuck in her hair and a clipboard of papers stuck underneath one arm.

He heard Liam laugh on the other end of the call – certain his face did that _thing_ whenever he saw Emma – and Ariel smiled knowingly at him when he pushed the phone into Will’s hands. Killian heard Liam ask _who’s that,_ but he didn’t turn back, just stepped towards Emma before he could consider anything that even remotely sounded like under the radar.

“Hey,” Emma said, glancing around the room. “I know you’ve got a schedule up here, A, but if these guys could pause for two seconds to sign these,” she held up the sticks in her hand, eyes finally landing on Killian, “that would be awesome.”  
  
“Sure,” Ariel answered. “Liam totally screwed up the schedule anyway. There’s no point in even trying to get Scarlet back on that treadmill now.”  
  
“You need to relax, A,” Liam shouted, somehow able to hear Ariel’s insults from the other side of the country and a slightly shoddy Facetime connection.

“Is that Liam?” Emma asked, pointing at the phone and Killian nodded as his brother once again demanded to know who had just shown up in the conversation.

“He’s very bored,” Killian explained. “He doesn’t have a game today and the only thing he wants to talk about is how shitty our PK is.”  
  
“It is pretty bad,” she agreed, smile tugging on the corners of her mouth as she rested the sticks against the wall behind her. “I mean what’s it now? Seven goals?”  
  
She was teasing him – eyes bright and mouth slightly twisted and that was hardly fair. “Five, Swan. Only five.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you know that off the top of your head?” Will asked, holding the phone up so Liam could see the entire room again.

“Did you?”  
  
“I’m not PR.”  
  
“Community,” Emma said, pointing towards herself and Liam choked on the air in his living room.

“You’re community relations?” Liam asked, eyes darting between Emma and Killian.

She nodded and waved her hand slightly and Killian had to resist the very real urge to sling his arm around her shoulders. “Emma,” she said. “I’m Emma.”  
  
“It’s nice to meet you,” Liam said. “Officially. You were at the ritual, weren’t you?”

“It weirds me out that you call it that, but yeah, I was.”  
  
“What are the sticks for?”

Emma blinked once, seemingly a bit surprised at the sudden shift in conversation. “Casino Night. I need signatures.”  
  
“Casino Night already?” Will whined, his grip on the phone loosening just a bit as he rolled his whole body forward. “I thought we were all focused on the charity game.”  
  
“We are,” Emma sighed. “If I can get waivers for the kids, but that’s a whole different story. And Casino Night’s before the charity game. We’re trying to promo the game at Casino Night. Plus, I still need stuff to auction off. C’mon Scarlet it won’t kill you to sign this stick.”  
  
“But I’m injured.”  
  
“And if you don’t sign this stick I will break several other bones in your body.” Killian laughed and even Liam sounded amused as Will held his hand out, waiting for the marker and the stick and it took less than five seconds for him to get his signature on the blade. “See,” Emma muttered. “Painless.”  
  
“It better go for the most money.”  
  
“Your desire to help others consistently astounds me Scarlet.”  
  
“You going to make Cap sign too?”  
  
“I brought two sticks didn’t I?” Emma asked, nodding towards the other one still leaning against the wall. Killian moved around her, grabbing the stick and making sure to brush his fingers across her back where no one – even his brother on a phone screen – would be able to see. She shifted slightly and shot him a look over her shoulder, but he just smiled in response and Emma rolled her eyes as he signed his name on the stick.

“What’s going on with the waivers, Swan?” Killian asked, handing her back the team-provided marker.

She rolled her eyes again, but it was more in frustration than some sort of undercover brand of flirting. “There are, apparently, twenty different reasons why we can’t let the kids on the ice or let the season tickets on the ice, which was the major thing I’d been planning to auction off at Casino Night. Aurora said something about how we’d be paying medical bills for the rest of our lives if a kid got hurt or a season ticket got hurt, so now I’ve got to come up with a whole new plan of attack on that one.”  
  
“You’re attacking kids, Emma?” Will laughed and Killian glared at him.

“And you’re not getting out on the ice either,” she said, ignoring Will’s question completely. Emma waved her hand when Will’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not my call. That’s totally Arthur, but I agree with him. If you really go six to eight, you’ll only be back for a few weeks during the game. He’s not going to let you risk that.”  
  
Will sighed, but there wasn’t any point in arguing if Arthur had already decided. “I know you wanted to get out there,” Emma continued.  
  
“Eh, mostly just to hit Phillip the Rookie.”  
  
“And because you’re a giant pushover for kids. It’s ok, your secret’s safe with me.”  
  
Killian hadn’t stopped looking at her – eyes following her whenever she moved and he could, somehow, feel Liam’s gaze from the phone, understanding etched into that same space between his eyebrows now.

“Anyway,” Emma continued, shifting the clipboard from under her arm as she pulled the pen out of her hair and crossed out one of the items on the list Killian knew she’d made. “I’ve basically resigned myself to the idea of actually threatening Aurora if I have to and locking myself up over the two days we actually get off for Christmas to try and figure out how this is all going to play out. It’ll at least be quiet then.”  
  
“What?” Killian asked before he could stop himself, only vaguely aware that there were still other people in the room.

“Reese’s and David are going to Maine to visit her dad. They go every Christmas.”  
  
“So you’ll be by yourself?”

“Unless you count stacks of paper as company,” Emma shrugged.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Liam coughed pointedly and Will pushed the phone into Killian’s hand immediately. “You should come downtown,” Liam said.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t understand,” Emma said.

“No one should be by themselves on Christmas. Or any holiday for that matter. I’m surprised Killian didn’t ask you.”  
  
Emma didn’t move. She didn’t even look like she was breathing, clipboard back underneath her arm and shoulders straight as the sticks still leaning against the wall.

He was going to kill Liam.

And then maybe El – who clearly couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

Or maybe he was just painfully obvious.

He was probably just painfully obvious.

“I’ll think about it,” Emma said, smile just a bit strained when she looked back at Liam. Her phone started ringing before Liam could do anymore damage and she glanced at Killian again, a quick _I’ll see you later_ lingering in the air before she practically sprinted out the door.

The walls were back and Killian found himself on the outside looking in once again.

* * *

They gave up another power play goal.

Arthur broke another whiteboard.

And the losing skid stood at six games now, a decidedly depressing number that would probably be featured heavily in the New York tabloids the next morning.

In any normal situation on any normal team that wasn’t facing a several-decades long championship drought, it would have been far too early to consider playoff standings or playoff possibilities or anything outside of the annual holiday dinner at Eric’s they were all expected to attend later that night.

But this was New York and they hadn’t won a Cup in years and a six-game skid meant they’d fallen out of a Wild Card spot in the middle of December.

The entire team was on edge, frustrations running high and no one really wanted to go to this holiday dinner at Eric’s – far too aware of the team-mandated cameras that would be there as well, requiring to look as if any of them were even remotely pleased that they’d given up yet another power play goal.

“You probably shouldn’t kill Liam right away,” Ariel said, sinking down onto the chair next to Killian and grabbing an onion ring off his plate. He grumbled in response and she laughed softly. “You sound like Rol.”  
  
“He doesn’t have to worry about overstepping older brothers.”  
  
Ariel hummed in agreement, picking apart the onion ring in her hand until she’d built a small mountain of crumbs on the counter in front of her. “His intentions were good, for whatever that’s worth.”  
  
“Not much.”  
  
“You’re a very stubborn man, you know that?”  
  
“I’m aware.” She groaned, rolling her head back and forth and grabbing another onion ring. “Get your own,” Killian muttered.

“It’s more fun when I can just steal from you though.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, but he pushed the plate closer to Ariel and she practically beamed at him. “Everyone totally knows, you know,” she muttered. “You guys are terrible at pretending like you’re not constantly trying to make sure you don’t just start tearing each other’s clothes off.”  
  
“Those double negatives, Red.”  
  
“Please,” Ariel scoffed. “You totally kept up. Anyway, I know Emma already told Mary Margaret and I know you went over there after Scarlet got hurt, so you’re acting like a couple around her friends. How come that’s not a two-way street?”

“You know if I didn’t know you any better,” Killian said slowly, “I would think that you’re trying to protect me or something.”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
He sighed softly, glancing around the restaurant and it was packed – players and front office and significant others and Emma still wasn’t there. There’d been no post-game texts, not even a vaguely sarcastic comment on the state of their woefully bad penalty kill, but he’d scored and Killian had hoped to find at least _something_ on his phone when he opened his locker.

There wasn’t anything.

And if he were being completely honest with himself, he wasn’t mad at Liam for asking Emma to the Vankalds for Christmas because, if he were being completely honest with himself, he wanted to ask Emma to the Vankalds for Christmas. But he’d only just managed to tear down a few feet of the retaining wall she had built around _her_ and she’d finally explained why her shoulders tensed and her jaw locked whenever he talked about his family and the last thing he wanted to do was throw any of that back in her face.

Even if he wanted her to come to the Vankalds for Christmas.

Badly.

More than anything.

“I’m fine, Red,” Killian promised, but his voice was tense at best and shaking at worst. She absolutely didn’t believe him.

“When are you going to tell her?”  
  
“Tell who what exactly?”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“Ariel.”  
  
Her eyes widened slightly and, well, that had been a mistake. He never called her by her actual name. Ever. In fact, Killian wasn’t entirely certain he ever had.

They needed to break out of this slump.

He was losing his mind.

“Do you love her?” Ariel asked, not even bothering to mince words now that they’d very obviously jumped over some metaphorical line. Probably the crease. They were probably in the crease because technically you weren’t ever supposed to be in the crease and you’d get two minutes for hitting the goalie and Killian had lost track of the metaphor.

He didn’t want to have this conversation.

Ariel, however, was determined. “I asked you a question, Cap,” she continued.  
  
“Yes,” Killian answered quickly and the word wasn’t quite as hard to say as he’d expected it would be.

“Obviously. You should probably tell her that. And then tell her that you wanted to ask her to Christmas at the brownstone, but your brother is an idiot and it’s a trait that runs in the family so when you guys get married and have eighteen kids, she’ll be ready for it.”  
  
He couldn’t stop the laughter, despite his best efforts, the tension that had seemingly taken up residence between his shoulder blades evaporating quickly as he knocked Ariel’s hand away from the onion ring plate. “Eighteen kids is a lot, Red.”  
  
“Are you actually telling me you don’t want eighteen kids with Emma Swan?”  
  
“Ariel,” Killian snapped again, glancing around the restaurant to see if anyone had actually heard. No one even glanced in their direction.

She waved her hand through the air and rolled her eyes again. “Everyone knows already,” she said again, enunciating every letter as if Killian missed it the first time already. “Where is she anyway?”  
  
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since Liam invited her to Christmas.”  
  
“You’re an idiot.”  
  
“A very pointed opinion.”  
  
“And an accurate one. Now come on, tell me the truth, how come you guys aren’t in this corner, foreheads touching and being so painfully adorable everyone wants to throw up?”  
  
“That’s a lovely image you’ve painted there, Red.”  
  
“The truth, Killian.”  
  
“It’s complicated.”  
  
“So make it uncomplicated.”

Killian stared at Ariel and she didn’t blink, certain, it seemed, that it was simply that easy. It wasn’t. It was messy and they’d lost to the Kings that night and they hadn’t sent any front office with the team, but Killian hadn’t actually asked, just let Emma walk out of Ariel’s office because he was positive anything more was pushing.

He didn’t say any of that. He didn’t have a chance.

It felt a bit like going backwards.

“Hey, Cap,” Lance said, approaching them like he wasn’t absolutely terrible at clearing the puck out of the zone or completely interrupting. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

Killian sighed and Ariel nearly collapsed on the counter, body shaking with the force of her laughter. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said, dimly aware of Robin rolling his eyes as he eavesdropped on the conversation from the other end of the bar.

“Oh, really?”  
  
“I think I’d know.”  
  
“It’s just...I saw you talking to that blonde lady...what’s her name?”  
  
“Emma,” Ariel answered, laughter still clinging to her voice. “Her name is Emma.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. She talked to me about maybe signing something today so they could auction it for Casino Night. Anyway, I saw you guys talking a couple of days ago and I could have sworn I saw…”  
  
“No,” Killian interrupted. “You didn’t.”  
  
He did. They’d been talking about Aurora’s latest e-mail about getting kids on the ice for the game and getting Henry back to practice before the holidays and it wasn’t really _anything_ – Emma pressed up on tiptoes to kiss him before she went back to her office and he went to practice. It was normal.

Or it would have been normal for some kind of normal couple.

“An idiot,” Ariel repeated, but her voice was softer as her hand fell on top of his. “Come on Lance, let’s go talk to Locksley about...something else.”

Killian’s phone lit up, hitting against the onion ring plate as it vibrated on the counter. Both of their heads snapped towards the sound and he actually groaned when he saw Liam’s name on the screen, what appeared to be several paragraphs of text message in front of him.

“Don’t yell too loudly,” Ariel muttered, leaning forward to kiss side of Killian’s head as she pushed off the stool. “It is a team-sponsored event.”  
  
Killian shook his head, but smiled when he answered his phone and that seemed like a step in the right direction.

“Ok, don’t kill me,” Liam started, getting the words out before Killian could even actually say anything. “And don’t blame El because she didn’t tell me either.”  
  
“I know she didn’t,” Killian muttered. “Who did?”  
  
“Locksley.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Don’t kill him either. He heard you ask A for an address and you need to learn how to text for information if you’re going to try and have some sort of secret relationship.”  
  
“It’s not a secret. At least not really.”  
  
“Then how come you didn’t invite her downtown?”  
  
“Not all of us just conveniently start dating people who already lived in the same house as us,” Killian muttered. “Some of us actually go at normal speed for normal relationships.”  
  
Liam grumbled. Elsa’s voice in the background was barely audible as she shouted to _leave him alone_ and Killian ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, but that’s not really your M.O. isn’t it?” Liam asked knowingly. “Come on little brother, I saw your face as soon as she walked into the room. Tell her you want her to come downtown.”

“Younger brother.”  
  
“I honestly thought you would have asked her.”  
  
“You should probably ask her,” Elsa shouted and Killian sighed again.  
  
“Why are you two so intent on this? It’s not like I’m bringing people to Christmas regularly.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Liam mumbled and Killian got the distinct impression they weren’t telling him something again.

“That’s not even remotely close to an answer.”  
  
There was a noise on the other end of the phone and it was obvious it was changing hands. “Ask her KJ,” Elsa said, a note of command in her voice that Killian hadn’t heard in years. He blinked once, mouth going dry at the tone.

“Ok,” Killian answered instinctively. “Listen, I got to go, alright? Say hi to the twins for me.”

“They think your PK sucks.”  
  
“I highly doubt they actually said that.”  
  
“The sentiment was the same.”  
  
“Sure,” he laughed.

“Ask her.”  
  
“I’ve got to go, El.”  
  
She hummed in response and Killian pushed his phone back into his pocket almost as soon as he heard the click on the other end, not even bothering to say anything to anyone as he walked out of the restaurant.

An hour – and one trip three blocks farther uptown, with Mary Margaret’s promise that she didn’t know where Emma was ringing in his ears – later, Killian was in the back seat of a cab, phone in front of him and fingers flying over the screen.

Ariel was right. He was an idiot. And he should have gone after her the minute she’d walked out of the office that afternoon or never even gone to the restaurant in the first place or asked her to come to the brownstone for Christmas like some sort of normal couple, because there weren't many things he wanted more than to be just some sort of normal couple.

That wouldn’t work when his face was on the side of the Garden and Emma still couldn’t get answers out of Aurora about why it was so difficult to organize waivers and she must have had the entire roster signing merch before they got on the ice that afternoon.

The cab came to a stop in front of his building and Killian handed a wad of cash to the driver, just nodding when he realized he’d just driven the captain of the New York Rangers twenty blocks downtown.

Regina hated when he took cabs – claimed it was _dangerous_ for people to know where he was living and how he was living and Killian absolutely did not care. He didn’t have time to call a towncar or call Regina to call a towncar and everyone probably knew already, but until Emma actually said she didn’t mind everyone knowing already, he wasn’t going to do anything that jeopardized under the radar.

Killian climbed out of the car, nodding again when the driver actually started chanting _let’s go Rangers_ before adding in a quick, _but fix that PK, huh_ and he barely even glanced up from his phone when he walked into the building.

He’d texted twelve times and if he didn’t feel like a teenager before, he certainly felt like one now, each message getting progressively more and more desperate.

_Just at least let me know where you are because Mary Margaret was worried. She only just convinced David not to send out an APB on you._

Killian hit send, hitting the elevator button with a bit more force than absolutely necessary and trying to figure out how one set of shoulders could possibly hold that much tension. They needed to win a fucking game.  

“Mr. Jones?”

He spun on the spot, glancing in the direction of the night guard who nodded towards a mess of blonde hair, sitting in the corner of the lobby with a small frown on her face and a recently-texted phone in her hand. Killian nearly tripped over his feet when he moved, never quite as good on actual floor as he was on the ice, and Emma smiled at him when his sneakers landed in front of her.

“Mary Margaret knows I’m here,” Emma said softly. “I texted her half an hour ago. And your penalty kill totally sucks.”

Killian scoffed, running his hand through his hair. “I refuse to accept complete responsibility for the state of our penalty kill. It’s that new guy.”  
  
“He’s horrible. Wasn’t he supposed to be good? I thought there was a headline about him being good.”  
  
“You can’t believe everything on the backpage, Swan.”  
  
“Ah, well, good to know since Rubes was going crazy about the state of backpages tonight.”  
  
“Was she?”  
  
Emma hummed in agreement, tugging on the end of her hair and Killian suddenly realized – she was nervous. He should have noticed before, but he’d been too focused on trying to keep his breathing level when he realized she’d shown up in his apartment building.

She was sitting on the floor in his apartment building.

“She was definitely going crazy,” Emma continued, voice picking up just a bit as she started wrapping her finger around her finger. “Some guy from _The Post_ wanted a one on one with you, you know. She told him to fuck off.”  
  
“I’ll have to thank her tomorrow.”  
  
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that while she’s ripping _The Post_ in half with her bare hands.”  
  
He smiled, but Emma kept staring at her shoes and she’d let go of her hair, toying with her phone instead, twisting it in her hands as she took a deep breath. “Mary Margaret didn’t know where you were before,” Killian muttered, rocking back on his heels as he pushed his hands in his pockets.

“What?”

“She didn’t know where you were before,” he repeated. “At least that’s not what she told me.”  
  
“When did you talk to Reese’s?”  
  
“When I went to her apartment.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widened and she shifted slightly, hair falling in her eyes as she shook her head. “You went to Reese’s apartment? Again?”  
  
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Killian shrugged.

“And you just...you went up there?”  
  
“Is that surprising?”  
  
She shook her head again, tongue darting out across her lips and Killian could hear her take a deep breath as she stood up. His hands moved before he could consider the implications of it, fingers gripping her hips just a bit tighter than necessary. “No,” Emma whispered. “It’s not. I should have figured.”  
  
“You can do that, you know. Figure. Or plan. Whatever word you want really.”

Emma let out a shaky laugh, head brushing against the front of his league-mandated button-up shirt. “I told you I’m not big on sentiment.”  
  
“Not sentiment, Swan, just a fact.”

“I was about to answer you, you know,” she said. “I was trying to time it better. I figured you’d still be at Eric’s and you could come here and it’d be this vaguely sweeping romantic thing.”  
  
“Vaguely sweeping?”  
  
“Anything more seems to decidedly fall in the realm of sentiment.”  
  
“A work in progress, love,” Killian laughed, arms wrapped all the way around her now until they were practically rocking back and forth in the corner of his building’s lobby. “And I left Eric’s fairly quickly after I realized you weren’t answering my text messages asking when you were going to get to Eric’s.”

“I really did have work stuff. They’ve got a whole group coming next week for homestand and we’ve got to set that up, plus Mer and I were organizing signed merch for hours this afternoon. I barely even saw any of the game.”  
  
“Just enough to know the PK sucked.”  
  
“I literally only saw them score that power play goal in the second. Someone should tell Arthur that whiteboards don’t just grow on trees.”  
  
“I think the franchise can afford it.”  
  
She nodded again, tugging on the front of his shirt as she looked back up at him. “Yeah, that’s probably true.” Emma took another deep breath, setting her shoulders and staring at him like she’d been thinking something very particular for the last hour. “Everybody absolutely knows. About us. They all know. Aurora asked if I could get extra signed merch from you because we’re dating.”  
  
“The new guy asked if you were my girlfriend.”

The words were out of his mouth quickly and easily and Killian winced when he realized what he’d said – he didn’t expect Emma to laugh. “What did you say?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What did you tell him? I mean we’ve never actually used the labels or anything, but…”  
  
It had been a strange day – Scarlet complaining in PT and Liam trying to play matchmaker over FaceTime and the shittiest penalty kill in the entire goddamn league – but that might have made it all worth it.

“We didn’t,” Killian agreed. “But I’ve kind of been thinking it.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good?”  
  
“I mean I sat in your apartment building lobby for the last half hour, so I’ve kind of been thinking the same thing.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Emma smiled at him and several of his internal organs did something absurd and they should probably leave this lobby at some point. “Did you miss the part where I sat on the floor for half an hour? I just...I think it’s ok.”  
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific, love.”  
  
“You’re really going to make me say it?”  
  
“And I’m going to enjoy it.”  
  
“We’re dating,” Emma sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically and _his_ face was probably going to freeze that way. There were worse things. “And you’re my boyfriend and I’m your girlfriend and everybody absolutely knows already so we don’t really have to do anything differently, but, you know, maybe we can stand next to each other during post-game dinners or something.”  
  
“Stand next to each other?” Killian repeated, dragging his mouth against the side of her jaw until she jumped, breath catching audibly. “I like the sound of that.”  
  
“And maybe I’ll start answering text messages in a more timely fashion.”  
  
He nodded seriously, doing his best to keep things _light_ and _easy_ and not overwhelmingly sentimental. It was absolutely, overwhelmingly sentimental.

And Emma had come here.

That seemed to make them even.

At some point, Killian should probably tell her he loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.  

“You want to go upstairs?” he asked, hoping against _something_ that his voice didn’t actually shake. It felt like a very important question.

“I already told Reese’s I wouldn’t be on the couch later.” He felt his eyebrows move quickly, smile tugging on his lips and Emma rolled her eyes, pushing her palm flat against the front of his shirt. “C’mon, Jones. Your bed is so much more comfortable than that couch.”

* * *

It was late.

And his legs were killing him and he was absolutely exhausted, but he couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face either.

The bed was, absolutely, much more comfortable than the couch in Mary Margaret’s loft. It was even better with Emma curled against his side, head on his chest and hair threatening to land across his face and Killian couldn’t bring himself to even try and move it, far too content with the world – even with the shittiest penalty kill in the entire league.

“Was that a real invitation before?” Emma asked and he moved at that, body jerking back in surprise when her voice cut through the pitch black of his bedroom.

“I thought you were asleep.”  
  
“Nah, too wired thinking about signed merch and where we’re going to store all those sticks before Casino Night.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, kissing the top of her head and tugging her even tighter against his side. “Make Ruby let you use her office. Or ask Kristoff. He’s got all that space down there. He can store ‘em for a few months.”  
  
“Oh that’s a good idea actually. We could keep them there and maybe get an inventory done and…”  
  
“What were you talking about before, love?” Killian asked, smiling in spite of himself as soon as she started planning again.

Emma stopped talking immediately, body going stiff and her fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm against his skin. “I was just thinking...and wondering if, well, if Christmas was a real invitation or if that was just your brother was trying to do brother-type things.”  
  
“Of course it was a real invitation,” Killian said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”  
  
“Well, I did kind of run out of there.”  
  
“Why did you?”

She shrugged – an impressive feat considering was still laying on her side. “Same old, same old. An impressive amount of family and not wanting to overstep and we hadn’t actually used those vaguely high school labels before.”

Emma didn’t say anything else, but he could feel her take another deep breath, sighing softly when she exhaled again. And it felt like a very big moment for a pitch-black room at some indeterminate time in the middle of the night, but that also seemed to be _them_ and there _was_ a them, now with high school labels. Killian shifted on his side, narrowing his eyes slightly so he could see her – lip pulled tightly in between her teeth, staring at the tiny bit of mattress that somehow still seemed to exist in between them.

He pulled his hand up, fingers working their way into her hair and behind her ear, wrapping around the back of her neck until Emma dragged her eyes back up. “Would you like to come to Christmas, Swan?” Killian asked softly. “It’ll be big and overwhelming and El and Banana make this disgusting bread pudding that everyone pretends to enjoy and Mrs. Vankald will probably speak only in clichés and Mr. Vankald will want to talk hockey all day, but I’d like you to be there.”  
  
Emma blinked, twisting her mouth and nodding quickly, cheek brushing across the pillow it had landed on when Killian moved. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”  
  
“You’ve got to pretend to like the bread pudding, you understand?”  
  
“I can do that.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt.”  
  
Maybe he’d tell her he loved her at Christmas. After the bread pudding and before the gifts and Mrs. Vankald singing and Mr. Vankald challenging him and Liam to air hockey in the basement. Or maybe he’d wait until they were back here, in this far too comfortable bed when they were by themselves and Emma was pressed up against his side again.

It didn’t really matter.

The only thing he knew was that Emma Swan, his _girlfriend,_ might actually be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, hey there. Have some more fluff. And vaguely obnoxious family members and THE VANKALDS ARE COMING. For Christmas! In New York! With Emma. Honestly next week's updates have some of my favorite moments in the entire story and I'm so, so psyched for you guys to read it. 
> 
> As always, @laurenorder is a word-reading godsend. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	21. Chapter 21

“It’s one night, Swan. You’ve brought four different shirts.”

Emma muttered something decidedly un-holiday under her breath, focusing her attention on folding up another pair of jeans instead of staring at the smirk she was certain was on his face – her _boyfriend’s_ face.

She had a boyfriend.

Her boyfriend was the captain of the New York Rangers. Her boyfriend, captain of the New York Rangers was bringing her to his foster parents very large, very tradition-filled brownstone downtown that afternoon for back-to-back days of Christmas festivities and, apparently, some sort of bread pudding that he’d once again reminded her she had to pretend to actually like.

And Mary Margaret had nearly hit the ceiling when she actually jumped for joy the week before, Killian walking into the apartment and casually mentioning something about Emma coming for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

She’d hugged Emma and then hugged Killian and Emma rolled her eyes while David just looked passably amused.

Emma stuffed the jeans into the bag in front of her, sitting cross-legged in front of the couch she was, somehow, still sleeping on. At some point she should probably start looking for a place of her own if only because Mary Margaret kept getting a bit glossy-eyed whenever she saw Killian kiss the side of Emma’s head when they sat next to each other on that very same couch.

Maybe then they could go on a real date too. She should probably ask him on a real date, something that didn’t involve sitting on Mary Margaret’s couch or his couch or his bed – even though that last one was kind of fun.

David, at least, hadn’t gone through any sort of _overprotective speech_ yet. Emma had a sinking suspicion it was because he wanted playoff tickets.

He had, however, muttered a quiet _have fun_ before he and Mary Margaret walked out the door the day before, loaded down with their own bags and a scrapbook jam-packed with wedding details they’d probably have to show to every single person in that tiny Maine town.

She would have fun.

She would also impress her boyfriend’s family because Emma Swan had never done anything quite like this before.

It had been terrifying enough to ask if Liam’s invitation had been real, but she’d sat in the lobby of Killian’s apartment building for half an hour, determined to be almost _normal_ when it came to those emotional types of conversations and then he’d asked her and she couldn’t quite ignore the way her stomach flipped at the question and the hope in his voice.

So she’d said yes and promised to, at least, pretend to like the bread pudding. But then he’d followed up with another question and another tradition and it shouldn’t have really surprised her. Emma hadn’t met Mrs. Vankald yet, but she sounded like Ruth on mother-based steroids, so _of course_ there was some sort of Christmas Eve _thing_ that probably included matching pajama sets.

Killian hadn’t said if that would happen or not.

And Emma hadn’t asked because, deep down, she was still just a bit terrified at the prospect of doing this and being _the girlfriend_ in some sort of overwhelming type of way that had her thinking very specific things again.

One major life event at a time.

They’d get there eventually. It had only been a couple of months.

She’d been thinking it for weeks.

God, maybe she should bring another dress. What if they were supposed to dress up for dinner?

“Is there a dress behind you?” Emma asked, pushing on the small mountain of clothes she’d managed to fit in one duffel bag.

“Why would you need a dress?” Killian countered. The floor creaked when he moved, crouching down next to her as he tugged her hands away and leveled her with a knowing stare.

“You tell me.”  
  
“You don’t need a dress, Swan. Or half the clothes you’ve actually put in there.”

“But what if…”  
  
Killian shook his head. “No, no what ifs. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be better than fine, in fact. You could show up in team-branded merch and sweats and it would still be fine.”  
  
“I don’t have team-branded sweats.”   
  
“Tell Zelena that, she’ll get you some.”   
  
Her laugh was still a bit nervous, but Emma could feel that coil of anxiety that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach start to loosen just a bit and that might have been because of the smirk. She didn’t tell Killian that.

“I’m not going to wear sweatpants to meet your entire family,” she mumbled, yanking the zipper of the duffel bag closed with just a bit more force than actually necessary. Killian narrowed his eyes and the smirk faltered for half a second – he was nervous too. “Are there pajama sets involved though?”

“What?”  
  
“You know like those matching pajama sets that people get from their families on Christmas and then they take pictures and make them their Christmas cards the next year. It seems like there would be pajama sets.”   
  
“Not that I’m aware of and if there are, I’m not wearing any.”

“Got to maintain that image, huh?”

“Something like that,” Killian laughed, pushing off of the floor and holding his hand out for Emma. She took it without question, thumb brushing over a particularly raised scar that ran down past his wrist.

He didn’t say anything at that, but she could see his chest move when he took a deep breath, tongue darting out over his lips and the smirk was a bit more genuine than it had been the entire day. Emma kicked at the duffel bag in front of her, wondering why she didn’t have any luggage that was somewhere between industrial sized and this and there wasn’t only clothing in there – Killian didn’t know that either.

Sentiment was a distinct work in progress.

“It’s going to be fine, Swan,” Killian said again, squeezing her hand slightly as if that would make her slightly less nervous.

“So you’ve mentioned. They know I’m coming, right? Like they know I’m staying and you’re just kind of throwing me into these familial traditions?”  
  
“I don’t know where you got the impression I’d be throwing you anywhere, love, but yeah, they know you’re coming. It’s all El has talked about for the last week.”

Emma bit her lip tightly and scrunched her nose and the coil was a bit tighter again, nerves rushing back in one foul swoop of sentiment and that _thing_ that was stuffed into the bottom corner of her duffel bag.

He noticed immediately, hand moving away from hers until his thumb was brushing on the side of her jaw as he tilted his head. “Hey,” Killian said softly and Emma closed one of her eyes, twisting her lips at his tone. “Aside from my certainty that it’s going to be absolutely fine, I’m glad you’re going to be there. Have I mentioned that?”  
  
“A few times.”   
  
“Let’s try it again then. I’m glad you’re going to be there. I want you to be there. Sometimes it’s...it doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips over her forehead and Emma wasn’t sure if she was laughing or sighing or just swooning, but her shoulders sagged a bit when Killian’s fingers found their way into her hair. “It could be an absolute disaster, which it won’t be, but it could be and I’d still want you there. Consistently.”

“Romantic,” Emma mumbled.

“Charming, Swan. We’ve been over this.”

“I like you anyway,” she said quickly, hand falling on the front of his team-branded t-shirt. Killian nodded slowly, smile inching across his face as his phone vibrated on the coffee table. “Even if you wear team-branded from eighteen seasons ago.”  
  
“It’s hardly been that long, Swan. This is,” he glanced down at the shirt, gripped tightly in between her fingers, “third season. At the earliest.”   
  
Emma laughed, a smile on her face and that kept happening – even with the titles and the impending family and she was going to stay overnight at a brownstone downtown with, maybe, pajama sets and probably presents and she’d bought them _presents._ She had gifts for people she’d never met and team-branded t-shirts for the twins that hadn’t actually been released in stores yet. They’d picked out gifts for Mr. and Mrs. Vankald together, walking hand in hand through Bryant Park the week before when Killian, inexplicably had an off day and no film to watch or a skid to snap.

They’d won after she’d spent half an hour sitting in the lobby of his apartment building and Emma knew, _knew,_ it wasn’t because of that, but he’d gotten first star again and if she were the kind of person who believed in things like that, she probably would have thought that felt important.

And she’d kept replaying that day in the back of her mind, images flitting behind closed eyes whenever she tried to fall asleep on Mary Margaret’s decidedly uncomfortable couch – how warm his hand always felt in hers, even through gloves and a frustratingly packed Bryant Park, chock full of tourists who weren’t aware you couldn’t just stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of the skyline, and there was a store with hand stitched pillows and Killian’s face lit up when he saw them, bright eyes and a smile that made Emma’s stomach do something ridiculous. The owner was a Rangers fan and given them a discount and made Killian promise to win the Cup and he’d agreed without missing a beat, hand tightening just a bit in Emma’s as he took the bag and the pillow. He wrote both their names on the card.

She’d tried to argue, something about how she needed to buy them a gift on her own to live up to some sort of _girlfriend_ expectation she’d gleaned from the romantic comedies Mary Margaret loved, but Killian just shook his head and kissed the top of her hair and Emma wasn’t sure when that became a thing, but then he muttered in her ear and she couldn’t come up with a single argument.

Together.

He’d said _together_ and Emma had never heard that word, had never let herself _believe_ in even the idea of the word, but then Killian Jones, captain of the goddamn New York Rangers, had shown up and worked his way into _everything_ and there was no way to argue the idea of together anymore.

“The car’s here,” Killian said, nodding towards his phone and if they didn’t leave soon they were absolutely going to be late. He might not know about the possibility of pajama sets on Christmas Eve, but there was, apparently, some sort of schedule that they absolutely had to stick to.

Emma took a deep breath and nodded once, not certain why she was agreeing to the very obvious point that the car was there. She needed to relax. It was just a day. Well, two days and a night and dinner and Christmas morning and _God_ where were they going to sleep? Were they going to sleep in the same room?

How was she ever going to fall asleep in Killian Jones’ childhood bedroom?

She should have asked more questions.

“Swan,” Killian said and his voice was more intent than sharp, eyes narrowed just a bit like he was willing her to believe him. “They’re going to love you.”  
  
She scoffed as his phone stopped ringing only to start again immediately and they were absolutely going to be late. “It’s just,” she sputtered, rocking back and forth on her feet. She still hadn’t let go of his shirt. “I’ve never done this before.”   
  
“Neither have I.”   
  
“What?” She hadn’t expected that. Killian hummed, lower lip pressed out slightly when he nodded. “But you said...before...when you...Liam knew.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian agreed. “He knew. He never actually met her though. None of them did and certainly not in some kind of national holiday type moment.”

Emma opened her mouth, a string of questions on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to actually ask any of them, not when he was staring at her like that, hands heavy on her hips. She might have been holding onto his shirt as a team-branded life vest at that point. Killian’s smile widened and Emma could feel it when he leaned forward, kissing her lightly and quickly and it meant something bigger than both of those things.

“I want you there,” he said again, but he didn’t sound frustrated at the need to repeat himself once more. He sounded like he just wanted Emma to believe him, still smiling as he answered his phone and promised the slightly frustrated Uber driver that they were absolutely on their way downstairs.

Emma pressed up on tiptoes as soon as the phone was back in his pocket, kissing his cheek and brushing her fingers through his hair. His chest moved slightly when he laughed. “Come on, we’re going to be late. I hear the bread pudding downtown is excellent.”

* * *

The house was huge.

No, that wasn’t a big enough word. It was bigger than huge. What was a bigger word than huge? Enormous? Intimidating?  
  
Ah, there it was.

The house was intimidating.

Emma stepped out of the cab, eyes going wide as soon as she saw the brownstone in front of her and she glanced over her shoulder, staring at Killian as he slammed the door shut behind him, a bag on his shoulder and another in his hand.

“What?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised at the look on her face.

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“That’s not an answer, Swan.”   
  
“That house is enormous! Are you seeing this? God, look at all the windows! How many windows are in this house?”   
  
“I have no idea. I’ve never counted the windows.”

“What? How could you not? How was that not the first thing you did when you saw this house? God, it’s enormous.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, taking a step towards her and his left hand found her right, just as warm as it always was. “I’d say at least twenty windows. If I had to guess. You’ve got to include the backside too.”   
  
“Ah, well, of course,” Emma mumbled, head falling onto his shoulder.

Her eyes traced over the rest of the house – counting only eight windows on the front facade and that was more than there were in Mary Margaret’s entire apartment – brick covered in rows of green, garland that wasn’t actually garland because it was really lines of shrubbery and that wasn’t really the right word either.

She’d gotten out of the cab and lost her ability to form coherent sentences.

There were lights too, dozens of strands of white fairy lights wrapped around wrought iron railings and perfectly lined around those eight windows she could count in front of her and it looked like a picture, some sort of idyllic scene that should probably be on the cover of a guide book titled _Why New York is Better Than any Other City at Christmas._

That was a very wordy title.

“Who decorates the house?” Emma asked as Killian tugged her towards the front steps. God, it _smelled_ like Christmas. They probably had a fireplace too.

“Oh that is strictly Mr. V territory,” Killian laughed, shifting the strap of the bag on his shoulder. He didn’t let go of her hand. “It’s very serious business.”  
  
“Really? I would have thought they’d hire someone to do that.”

Killian clicked his tongue and shook his head quickly as if the thought was impossible. “Nah, when we were kids, he used to rope Liam and I into it too. Liam’s taller, so he could get the lights to line up with the top of the windows fairly easily, but now Mr. V uses a ladder and it terrifies Mrs. V. She’s kind of used to it now though, far too worried about Banana falling off the edge of cliff.”  
  
“And you,” Emma added.

“Hmmm?”  
  
“You. Colliding with boards or getting upper-bodied again.”   
  
“Ah,” he said and there was something in the response that didn’t quite ring completely true. Emma lowered her eyebrows, turning towards him and his lips were set in a straight line. “Well, I’ve been kind of focused on not colliding with the boards or getting upper-bodied again this season.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Killian nodded and she could see the muscles in his throat move when he swallowed. “It’s just...different this season.”   
  
He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t really have to and if Emma’s heart hadn’t been beating far too quickly already, she probably would have noticed when it sped up again, realization hitting her on the on the top step of this absolutely enormous brownstone.

She took a step forward, tugging on the front of his jacket and the leather, finally made sense, because Christmas in New York might have been pretty, but it was also goddamn freezing. “It is,” Emma agreed softly.

And it was as if they weren’t about to meet his entire family or he refused to let her carry her own bag, some ridiculous attempt at chivalry that might have contributed to Emma’s overexcited heart rate. It felt as if they’d just said something important.

It felt like an understanding.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Emma added, appreciating the way his eyes widened. Killian nodded again, but he was smiling too, fingers wrapped tightly around her hand. “So, what do we do in front of this very fancy house? Knock?”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, head lolling for added effect. “No,” he answered quickly, reaching forward to grab the door handle. “That would probably scare Mrs. V, actually. Come on, I’m sure there’s a considerable amount of alcohol inside.”   
  
“Really selling it,” she mumbled as the door swung open.

They both jumped back quickly and the bag in Killian’s hands landed on the top step, his eyes going wide again. It didn’t really sound like a scream, more like a screech and Emma barely saw a flash of red hair and a very specific type of smile before there was a body colliding with Killian’s chest. He groaned, but Emma could see that same very specific type of smile on his face too and his arms had wrapped around the woman’s waist, red hair hitting across his neck when a gust of wind swept down Grand Street.   

“How long were you just going to stand outside, KJ?”

Killian laughed softly and Emma thought she noticed him tighten his grip, cheek pressed against the side of the woman’s head. Emma smiled – eyes darting up towards his when he glanced her direction. “KJ?” she muttered, bending down to grab the bag he’d dropped a few moments before when, Emma assumed, one of his not-quite sisters launched herself at him.

“Don’t ask,” he laughed, leaning back and shaking his head. He tilted his head when he noticed Emma holding the bag, moving his fingers quickly so she’d hand it over. “Give me that.”

“I can hold my own bag.”  
  
“Don’t even try to argue,” the still-yet-to-be-introduced sister said knowingly, eyes darting between Emma and Killian and his outstretched hand. “KJ’s always been about that whole _gentleman_ thing. I’m surprised he even let you move close enough that you got your hands on it.”  

Emma laughed and this was exactly what she’d pictured – family and people knowing each other in that kind of way that only family could really know each other and the woman in front of her was still beaming, practically bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

“Were you spying, Banana?” Killian asked. “I thought I noticed the curtains move.”  
  
“Please, you were far too busy making eyes on the front step. You know Dad and Liam were taking bets on how long it would take for you to actually open the door.”   
  
“Who won?”   
  
“Neither one. I got too impatient waiting for you.”   
  
“Of course,” Killian said, rolling his eyes. “You going to let us come inside now or should we all mentally prepare to freeze to death out here?”   
  
“You are honestly the most dramatic person in the entire universe. No, you can’t come inside until you live up to that self-imposed gentleman reputation. Introductions, KJ.”   
  
He rolled his eyes, but his hand had found its way back into Emma’s again. “Swan, this is Banana. She’s loud and apparently has already had several drinks and didn’t actually fall off that mountain in South America, although I’d never know because she never actually tells me when she doesn’t fall off mountains, just waits until she breaks her arm in Switzerland and asks me to look up translations so she can get to an urgent care.”   
  
Anna huffed, crossing her arms tightly and glared at Killian. He smiled. “That was the worst introduction in the entire history of introductions.”

“That Switzerland story is true though.”  
  
“That happened one time! And I didn’t fall off a mountain. I tripped over a tree root.”   
  
“Ah, of course. My mistake.”

She stuck her tongue out and Emma was positive she hadn’t actually taken a full breath in hours – a mix of pre-familiy nerves and current introduction nerves and she already liked the first Jones-Vankald family member she’d met.

“Anyway,” Anna said pointedly, making another face at Killian before turning towards Emma. “I’m Anna. KJ is an idiot and thinks a rhyme he came up with when he was eight is still funny and I’ve never fallen off a mountain.”  
  
“Emma Swan.” She held her hand out, the one not still wrapped up in Killian’s, and Anna took it immediately. Her hand was warm too. Emma tried not to linger on that, certain there was some sort of metaphor or cliché in the middle of it that was far too depressing for the overwhelming amount of family and holiday cheer in front of her.

“Oh thank God,” Anna mumbled.

“What?”  
  
“I just figured KJ came up with another nickname. Good. _Good._ Emma Swan. I like it. Sounds like a princess name.”   
  
Emma must have stiffened slightly because Killian’s hand tightened a bit – or maybe he was just exceptionally good at reading her face and possibly her mind – and Anna was still smiling, as if Christmas had arrived in the form of her almost-brother and his girlfriend.

“Inside, Banana,” Killian said, nodding to the still-open door. “Where are the twins? We’ve got gifts.”  
  
“You’re a giant pushover and they’re asleep. It’s the middle of the afternoon. You’re late by the way, Mom was half a second away from texting you before El told her to relax.”   
  
“El told her that?”   
  
“Yup,” Anna said, popping the word on her lips as she took a step back. Killian glanced at Emma, eyes still a bit brighter than usual as he led her through the door and into a foyer – this house had a foyer.

“Jeez,” Emma muttered, neck straining just a bit as she looked up at the ceiling. “Is that crown molding?”  
  
Killian shrugged, but the tips of his ears were red and Emma smiled slightly when he ducked his eyes down towards his sneakers. He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it up on a stand that was probably a hundred years old at least. And for as fancy – and _old_ – as the outside of the brownstone looked, the inside was bright and light and inviting.

There was more ivy inside as well – twisted around a dark banister a few feet in front of them, a row of shoes of varying sizes and styles just inside the door they’d finally closed. And there was absolutely a fireplace somewhere, the smell hitting Emma’s nose as soon as she walked into the house.

She took a step forward, eyes falling on the far wall, nearly every inch covered in frames and photos and memories. Emma’s fingers trailed along the edges of the wooden frames – the color of them matching almost perfectly with that perfectly decorated banister – and she bit her lip when she landed on one in particular.

They looked younger – Killian and Liam and there weren’t any scars on his left hand, arm wrapped around the shoulders of a woman who must have been Mrs. Vankald. Draft night. It was draft night, both of them wearing matching Rangers jerseys and smiles that were so wide they’d probably threatened to crack their respective jaws in half.

Anna was there too and another woman tucked against Liam’s side with slightly red eyes and light blonde hair and everyone in the photo looked a bit overwhelmed and maybe a bit overexcited and, decidedly, happy.

“That was a very good night,” a voice said behind Emma and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she spun around.

Mrs. Vankald looked older than she had in the photo – hair a bit grayer and the wrinkles around her eyes a bit more defined, but the smile was the same and she was, absolutely, smiling at Emma.

Killian moved behind her, arm around her shoulders and Anna looked like she was actually about to burst into tears. “Yeah, I’d imagine,” Emma muttered, doing her best not to actually groan. A fantastic first impression.

“You know Killian was so nervous that night that we nearly didn’t make it to the United Center on time. He kept almost choking himself with his tie.”  
  
Emma laughed, glancing up and he was shaking his head slightly. Anna had moved on from sentimental to hysterical, laughter filling up the entire foyer “Alright, alright,” Killian said quickly, arm moving to her waist as he tugged Emma closer to his side. “Mrs. V, this is my girlfriend Emma. Swan, this is Mrs. Vankald.”   
  
Anna gasped, all three of them turning at the sound. She was jumping up and down again, hands clamped over her mouth and Killian sighed loudly. “What the hell, Banana?” he asked, earning a quick click of the tongue from Mrs. Vankald.

“Elsa,” Anna shouted, practically sprinting around them towards another archway and what Emma assumed must be the living room. “El! Did you hear what he said?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian mumbled, the side of his head falling on top of Emma’s.

Mrs. Vankald gave them both a sympathetic smile, hand falling on Emma’s forearm. “Anna’s very easily excitable.”  
  
“Childish, is a better word.”   
  
“Killian,” she reprimanded, head twisting around when another pair of feet made their way back into the foyer. It had gotten very crowded, very quickly.

Elsa – it must have been Elsa – shook off her sister’s grip, reaching up to brush her hair out of her eyes. “Anna, I heard him perfectly fine from the couch.” She rolled her eyes and shot Killian that same sympathetic look her mother had just doled out.

Killian moved first that time, kissing Emma’s cheek quickly – pointedly ignoring Anna’s gasp – stepping towards Elsa and bending his knees slightly to wrap his arms around her waist and lift her up until her feet barely skimmed along the carpet. She laughed, smile barely noticeable on her face when she burrowed it against the crook of Killian’s neck, hair falling back across her forehead and over his shoulder.

She hugged him back tightly –  and Anna grumbled something about _not getting a hug like that_ – and Emma blinked quickly, certain that openly crying in the foyer would have been exactly the kind of first impression she didn’t want to make.

“El totally knew before I did, didn’t she?” Anna asked softly, glancing at Emma.

“I think everyone in the greater New York City area knew,” Emma said, smiling in spite of herself. “Except maybe Scarlet. I think he’s still under the impression we’re just friends.”  
  
“Yeah that’s probably true. He can be a bit slow on the uptake.”

“And, to be fair, Liam actually invited me to Christmas.”  
  
Anna scoffed in disapproval. “Always the last to know,” she mumbled. “They think I can’t get service on mountains or something.”   
  
Emma laughed, nodding in agreement as Elsa finally pulled herself away from Killian. She took a step forward and before Emma realized it there were arms around her and she was being hugged. “I’m so glad to meet you,” Elsa said and there was no way to doubt the sincerity in her voice. “Aside from your shoulder just out of frame in Skype conversations for the ritual.”

“I’m really happy to meet you too,” Emma replied.

It wasn’t enough, wasn’t the _thank you_ she probably should have said, the appreciation at being the one person Killian trusted enough to actually tell about _them_ and _this,_ but Emma got the distinct impression she didn’t have to. Elsa looked like she already knew, smile tugging on the ends of her mouth and there was something in the way that she kept looking at Emma that practically screamed just how big and important and meaningful the next day and a half was going to be.  

She could feel Killian’s eyes on her, knew he was trying not to smile _too_ much and for someone who, just a few hours ago had been frantically over-packing on the off chance that this didn’t go well, Emma found herself suddenly more comfortable than she’d been just about anywhere.

He moved behind her, hand flat against her back again and Emma let herself lean into the feel of him, warmth seeping through the jacket she still hadn’t actually taken off.

“Where’s Liam?” Killian asked to no one in particular and Anna made a noise that sounded a big like gagging. “Did he go downstairs already?”  
  
“As soon as Anna opened the door,” Elsa answered.

“That’s totally breaking the rules.”  
  
“You were late. You took forever to come inside. Dad wanted a few practice rounds.”   
  
“Air hockey?” Emma asked and Killian nodded as if getting in a few extra practice rounds of air hockey was personally offensive. “Go,” she said, turning around and her hand kept falling on the front of his chest like there was a magnet there.

“What?” Killian asked, head snapping back a bit with the force of his surprise.

“Go yell about what an unfair advantage the practice rounds are.”

Elsa and Anna laughed again and even Mrs. Vankald looked amused, the smile on her face making Emma feel as if this first impression was actually going pretty ok. “Oh, man, does she have you pegged, KJ,” Anna chuckled.

“You better go,” Elsa added. “Liam’s fairly convinced he’s going to win this year. Something about how it’s his time or he’s due. I don’t know. I stopped listening after he started repeating his strategy on the flight into JFK.”  
  
“So supportive,” Killian muttered.

“Yeah well if you had to listen to that while trying to make sure two four-year-old terrors didn’t inadvertently crash the plane, you would stop paying attention too.”  
  
Killian nodded seriously, turning back at Emma with questions written on his face. “You sure, Swan? Banana’s probably going to stage some sort of inquisition into everything you’ve ever liked if I leave you up here undefended.”   
  
“Rude,” Anna hissed, tugging on the end of Emma’s shirts. “And that’s true at all. We’ll just tell you embarrassing stories about KJ. That’s way more fun.”

She should have been more nervous. She should have felt that coil of anxiety tightening in her gut or the urge to run or the sheer terror she’d expected at the prospect of so much family. She didn’t.

She didn’t feel any of that.

Instead, Emma just smiled and kissed her _boyfriend_ quickly, gripping the front of his shirt again. “Go,” she repeated. “I’ve got stories to listen to and you can’t let Liam beat you this year, otherwise this whole relationship thing seems for naught.”   
  
All three Vankald women made a noise at that, a mixture of laughter and _impressed_ and Emma beamed when Killian’s mouth fell open. “You know I haven’t lost in years, Swan.”   
  
“Better not snap that streak then.”   
  
He shook his head, but he was staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of him. “A few practice rounds and then I want eggnog. There’s eggnog, right, Mrs. V?”

“Of course,” she said, as if the possibility of not having eggnog was offensive. “Let go of your girlfriend and go knock a few pegs off Liam’s ego.”  
  
“You playing favorites, Mrs. V?”   
  
“Absolutely not. I’m just trying to make sure my bets aren’t misplaced this year.”   
  
Emma’s cheeks were starting to hurt from overuse and she rapped her knuckles across the slightly faded Rangers logo on Killian’s t-shirt. “I’ll be fine,” she promised.

He kissed her again before he went downstairs.

* * *

She was going to _kill_ Mary Margaret.

Her phone would not stop vibrating, the dull noise in her back pocket making Emma wince every time she heard it. And she kept hearing it.

She should put her phone on silent. She couldn’t put her phone on silent. They were still waiting to hear how long the new guy would be with the team and if he was going to be around for awhile, Emma was going to have to ask him to take Scarlet’s spot for the charity game.

She didn’t really want to do that. The skid might have been snapped and they were definitely back in _streak_ territory, winners of three of the last four, but this Lance guy still absolutely sucked on the penalty kill.

Then of course there was holiday relating to the community and that Toys for Tots campaign they’d teamed up with and half her signed merch for Casino Night had disappeared in the last week when it got shipped around the city to kids who would, inevitably, lose their collective minds over it.

They’d done photo ops for it a few days before.

God, she needed to get more merch. And a less abrasive vibration setting for her phone.

So she couldn’t turn her phone off or put her phone on silent and Mary Margaret would not stop texting her. She had questions about everything – what the brownstone looked like and what the sisters looked like and if Liam was as nice as David apparently thought he’d be and what they were going to have for dinner.

And normally Emma wouldn’t have minded. In fact, if things were decidedly _normal,_ she probably would have appreciated Mary Margaret’s determination to know every single thing about what was going on.

But things weren’t normal and Emma was trying to _impress_ an entire family and Elsa kept staring at her like...something. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the word and that made Emma a bit nervous all over again, particularly when her phone went off for the forty-second time as she followed Elsa into the kitchen to check on the bread pudding.

_Remember to compliment the bread pudding. No matter what._

“KJ said you were busy,” Elsa laughed, crouching down in front of the oven to peer through the tiny window. Another window. Did that count? Emma was losing her mind.

Emma barely heard her, finally tugging her phone out of her pocket and firing off a quick message to Mary Margaret – _it’s fine, better than fine, I brought ten shirts and his sisters are nice and he’s playing air hockey with his brother and you need to stop texting me because they think it’s work._

Elsa smiled at her, glancing over her shoulder when she was apparently satisfied that the bread pudding was still on its way to being whatever was good for bread pudding. “Work stuff?” she continued, nodding towards the phone as Emma stuffed it hastily back into her pocket. “There’s probably a ton of holiday things, right?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, there is,” Emma said quickly, a bit frustrated that she’d seemingly lost the ability to have a normal conversation. “It’s also a very nosy best friend.”

Elsa’s smile got bigger as she crossed her arms lightly over her chest and shifted her weight slightly. “Did you make sure to tell her we don’t bite?”  
  
The tension that had really only been around Emma – the entire Vankald family was as _fine_ as advertised – dissipated immediately and she actually laughed when she felt her phone vibrate again. “She’s a bit overprotective,” Emma explained. “I’m sleeping on her couch.”

“That’s not a bad thing. The overprotective, I mean. It’s always good to have someone willing to look out for you.”  
  
“Like you do for Killian?” The words were out of her mouth quickly and Emma resisted the very real urge to groan audibly in the middle of the Vankald’s expansive kitchen – everything in this house was expansive – but Elsa didn’t look put off by the question.

If anything, she looked impressed.

“Absolutely,” she said. “He...cares about you a lot. Probably even more than he’s let on and I was under some sort of impression that KJ just told me everything by default.”  
  
“Not Liam?”   
  
Elsa’s eyebrows moved and her mouth twitched and, God, Emma needed to shut up. But she had questions – and he’d never brought anyone else to Christmas and she was fairly positive she...cared about him right back. And then some.

“Well,” Elsa started, making a noise that sounded as if she were trying to come up with the right word. “When they were kids, absolutely. Maybe not quite as much anymore.”  
  
“After Liam got hurt?”   
  
“Anna was right, you do have KJ pegged.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, taking a deep breath and her phone went off again. “Sorry,” she muttered, but Elsa just shook her head.

**Ten shirts? And that was a run-on sentence.**

_I wanted to be prepared._

**For what, exactly?**

“You’re not wrong you know,” Elsa said. “Things, well, they changed after Liam got hurt and it’s so much better now than it was then. It’s better now than it was a few months ago, honestly. I’ve got some theories on that.  
  
“Yeah?” Emma chanced, not entirely certain she wanted the answer to that question.

Elsa nodded, leaning against the counter behind her and she still hadn’t uncrossed her arms. “KJ’s always been, how do I put this...he’s always _felt_ things very deeply. He’d absolutely kill me if he knew I told you that. It’s true though. That’s why it was harder for him than it was for Liam when they came to live here, he felt like he was dishonoring his mother’s memory or something far too emotionally aware for an eight-year old.

So when Liam got hurt, KJ absolutely blamed himself. He wouldn’t listen to anyone else, nothing we said made him believe it wasn’t completely his fault, like he’d robbed Liam of something. You know Liam was the one who suggested they play hockey?”

Emma shook her head, certain she could actually _hear_ another piece of Killian Jones’ personality settle into place. “No,” she muttered softly. “I didn’t.”  
  
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Elsa said. “Or anything, really. But he used to talk to Liam at least and, more often than not, Liam just _knew._ He could look at KJ and know in half a second every single thing he was thinking. Things changed when he got hurt. KJ kind of doubled in on himself, if that makes sense? He didn’t talk. He barely even left his apartment that offseason. The only thing that helped at all was _her_ and the game. He threw himself into playing and he was...he was incredible that season.”  
  
“Henry said he was close to the Hart,” Emma added. Elsa narrowed her eyes in confusion at the name. “Oh, um, this Garden of Dreams kid. Killian’s kind of his hero.”   
  
Elsa blinked quickly and twisted her hands. “Of course he is,” she muttered, speaking more to herself than Emma. “So he started playing again and then he started almost believing again and…”   
  
“He got hurt.”   
  
“Yeah. And they didn’t know if he’d play again and it was just _another_ thing. Liam, well, Liam was different. He had things other than hockey when he got hurt.”

“You?” Emma asked and Elsa nodded quickly.

“Me. And he’s always been different than KJ. That’s what I’m getting at. KJ’s always felt _everything_ and when they did let him back on the ice, he’s only ever been worried about the game and winning a Cup. That’s different now.”   
  
Emma’s heart was doing something impossible, seemingly trying to work its way out of her ribcage and onto the floor of that very fancy kitchen. It seemed kind of unnecessary. She didn’t need a faster-than-normal heartbeat to see where this was going.

No one had ever brought her to a family Christmas party, but she wasn’t an idiot.

“It’s been different this season,” Elsa said, seemingly unaware of Emma’s biological difficulties. “He still wants to win and he wants the Cup, but I don’t think he’s doing it for himself anymore. At least not entirely.”  
  
“No?”   
  
She’d whispered the word, voice cracking just a bit on the question and the meaning behind it and Emma had expected some sort of overwhelming feeling of family and maybe even some kind of _don’t hurt him speech_ from either Elsa or Anna, but she hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected everything – all at once.

“No,” Elsa said simply.

There were footsteps behind her and Emma turned to find Killian practically beaming at her, Liam and, what appeared to be Mr. Vankald, on his heels. His hand landed on her back again, fingers working their way around the curve of her hip and Elsa glanced meaningfully over Killian’s shoulder – probably looking at Liam.

If there was one thing the Vankalds weren’t, it was subtle.

Liam moved around them, slinging an arm over Elsa’s shoulders as she rolled her eyes. “Did you win?” she asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“The only reason he doesn’t want to talk about it is because he lost,” Killian said, hand tightening a fraction of an inch. “Badly.”   
  
“That’s not true at all. You won a couple of practice rounds, little brother,” Liam shot back. “Don’t start counting victories until tomorrow.” He nodded once, as if that proved _that_ and his gaze landed on Emma, eyes going wide as if he’d only realized she was standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Hey, Emma,” he said. “Nice to see you in human form.”   
  
“I’m pretty sure I was still a human when you saw me on FaceTime,” Emma said. Elsa made a noise that sounded both a bit triumphant and surprised and Emma felt Killian move against her, the side of his hip bumping up against hers.

“You going to play tomorrow?”  
  
“Air hockey?”   
  
“They have a tournament,” Elsa muttered, rolling her eyes again. “They’re going to make the bracket later tonight.”   
  
“There’s a bracket?” Emma asked, twisting up to stare wide-eyed at Killian. He shrugged. “How do you do that, you’re an odd number?”   
  
“Sometimes Banana’s boyfriend comes,” Killian said.

“Oh you probably know him,” Liam added as Killian stiffed slightly against Emma’s side. “Kristoff.”

Emma scoffed. “Like the equipment manager of the New York Rangers? The one storing all my Casino Night merch?”

“One and the same. Is it really almost Casino Night?”  
  
“February.”   
  
“Huh. Well, Kristoff isn’t coming this year, so what do you say, Emma? You in on the air hockey tournament? We’ll even go a bit easy on you. We’ll make you six seed.”

“That’d put me on the top side of the bracket though,” Emma argued. “Didn’t Killian say he won last year?”

Liam waved his hands through the air as the doorbell went off in the foyer and Mr. Vankald said something about _the food._ “That’s debatable,” Liam said, ignoring Killian’s loud groan. “It is! There were some questions about that final goal and whether or not an arm went over the line at center ice. It’ll all get sorted at seeding.”

“You were the only one with questions,” Killian mumbled, resting his cheek on the top of Emma’s head as he tugged her tighter against his side.

“And who exactly is in charge of seeding?” Emma asked. She was far too competitive for her own good. And the Jones-Vankald family was something out of a storybook she was certain she’d read when she was younger.

“I am,” Mrs. Vankald answered, walking into the kitchen with a smile on her face. “And don’t let Liam fool you, sweetheart. He absolutely lost fair and square last year.”  
  
Liam made a noise that sounded a bit like disappointment, but Killian was hysterical, his whole body shaking against Emma’s and he still hadn’t moved his hand. “Collusion,” Liam shouted. “This is collusion! You’re all cheating.”   
  
Elsa sighed dramatically, but she was smiling too, hand falling on the front of Liam’s shirt. “Anyway,” Mrs. Vankald continued. “There’s food in case any of you horsemen were actually interested in eating.”

Liam moved quickly, tugging Elsa with him and she threw Emma a knowing glance before following him back towards the front of the house.

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to, love,” Killian said quietly, words muffled a bit by her hair. And she nearly felt her knees buckle when she realized that was the first time he’d called her _that_ since they’d walked into the brownstone.

Maybe she was an idiot.

And she should probably start telling him everything she was thinking before she accidentally started shouting it in the middle of the living room in front of his entire family.

“No, it sounds like fun,” Emma answered, twisting around so she was in front of him, team-branded t-shirt gripped tightly in her hands. “Plus, I could play you in the semis.”  
  
“That sounds like a challenge, Swan.”  
  
“Maybe it is,” she muttered, brushing her lips across his before she moved out of the kitchen, appreciating the slightly stunned look on his face.

They ate Chinese food.

It was, as Mrs. Vankald explained to her _tradition,_ but Emma saw the tips of Killian’s ears go red as soon as the words were out of her mouth and she was positive there was a story there.

They ate at an absolutely enormous dining room table with candles that smelled like an entire forest had been crammed into the house and there was a themed table runner and silverware that probably cost as much as the yearly rent on that apartment Emma rented in Los Angeles. It was, easily, the most adorable thing Emma had ever seen – and she’d spent a good chunk of her adult life living with Mary Margaret.

There was almost too much food – lo mein and sesame chicken and egg rolls and Anna kept cracking open fortune cookies until she got a prediction that she actually deemed acceptable – and no one seemed to stop smiling.

The twins had been woken up for dinner, stumbling down the stairs with mussed hair and matching jerseys that made Emma’s heart do that ridiculous fast-beating thing again, the ‘C’ on each one of their shoulders practically jumping out and hitting her across the face.

Killian’s hand stayed on her knee, just out of sight of any foster parents or quasi sisters or twins who, it seemed, also regarded him as the best player in the entire league.

“So, Emma,” Mr. Vankald said, nearly making her choke on the egg roll she was eating. Killian’s hand tightened and Emma tried not to _actually_ die in the middle of Christmas Eve dinner.

She hummed in response and _God_ her napkin had fallen on the floor. “Yeah,” she answered, doing her best not to glare when Liam chuckled.

“Killian mentioned you work for the team as well.”  
  
Ah, there it was. The interview. She’d been anticipating that, but out of all the things Emma was vaguely terrified about when it came to the next few hours in the Vankald brownstone, being forced to talk about her job wasn’t one of them.

She could talk about work.

She could totally impress all of them.

Not that she was trying to do that. Of course not. That would have been absurd.

“That’s true,” Emma said. “I’m the director of community relations.”  
  
“And fan experiences and events,” Killian added, smirking in her direction. She rolled her eyes.

“That too.”  
  
“So is Casino Night your domain then?” Mr. Vankald pressed.

Emma nodded. “It is, although that’s actually been one of the easier things I’ve had to deal with. Everything’s pretty much the same from year to year and Gotham Hall knows what we’re doing, the only thing that ever changes is the theme.”  
  
“What’s your theme this year?”   
  
“Speakeasy,” Emma answered, trying to gauge Killian’s reaction without actually turning her head to stare at him. “You know like 1920s, flappers and all that. Our alcohol will be legal though.”   
  
Mr. Vankald laughed and Emma only just noticed he was wearing team-branded as well – the same polo shirts they sold in Chase Square that were promoted as _what the coaching staff wears,_ which was a complete lie since Arthur only ever wore a suit on the bench. He didn’t even wear polos to practice.

And, just like that, something else clicked about the seemingly never-ending history of Killian Jones.

“In my limited experience with Casino Night, it’s usually good to have an excessive amount of legal alcohol on hand,” Mr. Vankald said.

“Have you not been to Casino Night before?” Emma asked, curiosity getting the better of her yet again.

“We went Killian and William’s rookie year.”  
  
“You know I could totally get you tickets,” she said. Mr. Vankald’s eyes went wide and she was certain she heard Mrs. Vankald whisper _really_ a few seats away. Emma nodded. “Yeah, yeah, of course. It’s going to be really awesome. There’s going to be a ton of tables and Killian and all the guys are going to deal and we’re doing this huge auction for the charity game.”   
  
“Charity game?”   
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s kind of my big thing this season. We raise a ton of money for Garden of Dreams with Casino Night, but we’re also doing a charity game a couple weeks later. It’s basically taken over my life. Killian’s going to coach.”   
  
“What?” Anna gasped, knocking her fork to the floor and even Liam looked surprised. Emma turned her head at that – Killian’s ears were still tinged pink and there was a flush in his cheeks that was just _unfair_ at a dining room table with his entire family sitting there and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Emma wasn’t sure what exactly she’d stumbled into, but Elsa was staring at her intently as if she were trying to will the idea of _told you so_ across several feet of Chinese food. “Yeah,” she continued, smile just a bit shakier than it had been a few moments before. “Although, now we’ve got to find another player since Arthur won’t let Scarlet play so soon after he, maybe, gets medically cleared.”   
  
“Who?” Liam asked.

“That new guy? Lance.”  
  
“He’s terrible on PK.”   
  
“Well it’s a charity game, I doubt they’ll be doing a lot of penalty killing.”

Liam glanced at Elsa, the movement so quick Emma wasn’t certain it had actually happened until she saw Elsa nod. “I could do it,” Liam said.

“You could do what?”  
  
“Fill your roster spot.”   
  
It had been a strange day – a kind of Christmas Eve that, until just a few hours ago, Emma was convinced didn’t actually exist in the real world or outside of Hallmark Channel movies – but nothing in that very strange, very emotional day would have possibly prepared her for Liam Jones to come out of retirement in order to play in her charity hockey game.

Killian’s hand was like a vice-grip on her knee.

“You’d...you’d do that?” Emma asked. She rolled her shoulders slightly, shifting in the seat until she’d uncrossed her legs and her hand found Killian’s underneath the table. He squeezed her fingers tightly and she was half convinced he had actually turned to stone next to her.

Liam shrugged. “Why not?”  
  
“Well, you’re retired.”   
  
“I still have legs. And it’s a charity game, right?” Emma nodded. “So there won’t be that much hitting anyway. Especially if Scarlet’s on the bench.”   
  
“That’s true,” Emma said warily, twisting her wrist around to trace that one scar across the back of Killian’s hand.

“Why?” Killian asked sharply. Mrs. Vankald looked like she was already watching the air hockey match, eyes darting back and forth across the table.

“Why what?” Liam countered.

“Why would you do that? You don’t even live here anymore. You’d all have to come back to New York.”

Elsa clicked her tongue and Killian’s head moved so quickly it must have actually hurt. He didn’t actually ask a question, just lifted his eyebrows and waited for Elsa to explain. She sighed before she did.

“Not all of us,” she said softly, but her gaze didn’t leave Killian’s and she sat up a bit straighter. “At least not probably. When exactly is this game, Emma?”  
  
“March 5th.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, then probably not. That’s kind of cutting it close, right? I don’t really know what the rules are.” She glanced at Liam, who just shrugged again, but he looked like he was bordering close to overjoyed.   
  
“Close to what?” Killian asked, but Emma’s mouth fell open. Elsa made a face, smiling at Killian as she shook her head.

“You remember when I called?” she asked. “After the opener and I messed up your gameday schedule and Locksley was pissed?” Killian nodded, head tilted in confusion. Emma kept her fingers in his. “There was a reason for that.”  
  
“You’re stalling El.”   
  
“God, KJ,” Anna sighed, dropping both her elbows on the table loudly. “You are so dense sometimes.”   
  
Killian moved again, eyes wide and mouth open slightly and Emma could hear him when he exhaled. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said quickly.

“There you go,” Emma muttered and Elsa let out a shaky laugh. She stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair in the process and Liam seemed to move out of instinct, hand flying up towards her.

Emma could almost see it then, a slight curve in her abdomen when Elsa stood up to her full height. She pointed towards herself, smile taking up nearly three quarters of her face as Mrs. Vankald sniffed. Killian hadn’t moved an inch – Emma wasn’t convinced he was breathing, but she almost winced when his hand tightened again.

No one said anything for what felt like an eternity, everyone’s eyes on Killian, waiting for some kind of reaction, and the only sound in the entire dining room came from a pair of particularly rambunctious twins who had started actually throwing General Tso’s chicken at each other.

Elsa sighed softly, shoulders slumping just a bit as she moved around the table to try and keep food on plates and off her kid’s faces. Anna looked like she was about to cry.

He moved quickly – and Emma was certain it had something to do with skating and athleticism, but she barely had a second to consider any of it before her hand was empty again and Killian was standing up, taking slow, deliberate steps around the table.

The twins didn’t care about the food as much when Killian stopped next to them, hands on his pants and the bottom of his shirt, but he didn’t look away from Elsa. She bit her lip tightly and Emma chanced a glance at Liam who looked a bit torn as to what he was supposed to do.

“For real, El?” Killian asked, voice coming out in a whisper. Anna was crying now.

Elsa nodded. “Why would I lie about that, KJ?”

“That’s a good point,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair quickly. Emma wasn’t sure which one of them moved first or whose arms moved faster, but they were a blur of limbs and hugs and Elsa’s feet were off the ground again.

Elsa made a noise, arms visibly tightening around Killian’s neck and Emma bit her lip tightly. She couldn’t cry.

“How long?” Killian asked when he finally put Elsa back down. Liam exhaled loudly – he’d definitely been holding his breath.

“Be more specific, KJ,” Elsa answered at the same time Liam muttered, “Do the math, little brother.”  
  
“Younger brother,” he mumbled, shooting Liam a glare. “C’mon, El. How long?”   
  
“A little over three months.”

Killian slumped forward slightly, but he was smiling and Emma tried to rub the back of her knuckles over her cheeks before anyone could see what a ridiculous sap she was. Anna absolutely saw.

“And you didn’t feel like telling me before then?” Killian asked. “You just wanted to call, what, after a particularly bad run-in with morning sickness?”  
  
“He figured it out,” Anna yelled, slumping down slightly when Mr. Vankald leveled her with a look. “Well, he did. Took him forever.”   
  
“To be fair, we didn’t really tell anyone,” Elsa mumbled. “Just mom and dad. Anna only figured it out when I mentioned I’d been sick.”   
  
“Because not all of us are as dense as KJ.”

“Shut up Banana,” Killian said. His eyes hadn’t moved away from Elsa’s. “When?”

“When what?” Elsa asked.

“Don’t make me do the math, El.”  
  
She laughed and the entire table seemed to take a deep breath. “June. Or around June.”   
  
“Cup baby,” Liam added and Killian finally looked away from Elsa to gape at his brother. The force of Liam’s smile probably could have powered a small country. “I mean, that’s the plan this season isn’t it?”   
  
Killian nodded slowly and if anyone noticed him move back towards Emma, they did their best to ignore it. She appreciated that. “Yeah,” he said, hand landing on her shoulder. “It is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For real though, the Vankalds may be my favorite. And Liam Jones is going to play hockey again! And heyooooo guess who's got to spend the night in Killian Jones' childhood bedroom next chapter? All chapter? 
> 
> As always, you guys are absolutely fantastic and I cannot thank you enough. @laurenorder makes this all better. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	22. Chapter 22

“I swiped us eggnog,” Emma said, knocking the door closed with her side. Killian stared at her from the bed, legs stretched out in front of him as he knocked off, at least, half a dozen decorative pillows onto the floor.

There weren’t _matching_ pajamas, but there was a theme and, of course, it was hockey – team-branded t-shirts and they all had numbers and their names on them and Mrs. Vankald absolutely made them all pose together before they were allowed to go to sleep.

Or, at least, to bed.

Emma was far too wired to even consider the possibility of sleeping, eyes darting around the room as she tried to take in everything that was the childhood of Killian Jones. There were more pillows at the foot of the bed and an absurd amount of blankets. The walls weren’t covered – Emma could easily make out the paint underneath, the light blue that was probably a bit faded at this point – but there were a few photos and a handful of posters. The Rangers winning the Stanley Cup in ‘94 seemed to play a very prominent role in the room’s decoration tendencies.

Killian followed her as she moved into the space, eyes tracing down her body and the leggings she had on before working their way back up to the glasses she had gripped in her hands.

She tried not to actual show how self conscious she felt, but it probably didn’t really matter in the long run – he was some kind of mind reader.

He held out his hand when her knees hit the side of the bed and Emma handed him the glasses, doing her not to spill eggnog on the sheets. She climbed next to him, swinging her legs over his and taking back her drink without a word.

Killian lifted one eyebrow, the side of his mouth pulled up into that absolutely infuriating smirk as he took a drink. He blinked once and Emma couldn’t quite stop herself from laughing. “Is there...rum in this, Swan?”

Emma nodded. “Not a ton. I didn’t want your entire family to think I’m some sort of alcoholic, but I kind of figured you might be able to use it.”

“Ah, but you didn’t have to do that, love,” he said, leaning over the side of the bed. Emma followed him, stretching her neck slightly to see what he was doing.

“Are you ripping apart the floor?”  
  
His shoulders shook when he laughed. “No, but there’s a loose floorboard here and if memory serves...ha!”  
  
Killian twisted around triumphantly, eyes as bright as Emma could remember ever seeing them. “Oh my God, is that a flask?”

“It is. What do you say, Swan, willing to test some questionably old rum?”  
  
Emma eyed him – as calm and at ease as he’d been since the set-up all those months ago. He was on his own turf, so to speak, or home ice or whatever sports cliché she could come up with. Killian kept smiling at her, shaking his hand as if she hadn’t heard the question and Emma nodded.

“Let me see it,” she said.  

He handed her the flask and nearly fell over when she realized the top just _popped off._ She took a deep breath and it shouldn’t have felt quite as romantic as it did, but of course that was exactly how it felt. Nothing quite made sense when it came to romance anymore and Emma was more than willing to just accept things as they were.

And if Killian Jones kept staring at her like the goddamn center of the universe, well, then, maybe it was ok to believe in a few things.

She flicked her wrist, squeezing her eyes shut when the rum hit the back of her throat and she tried not to actually gag at the taste. Instead she twisted her shoulders, shaking her head slightly and Emma was almost positive she could feel the alcohol land in her stomach.

Killian laughed at her, a quiet sound that seemed to take up residence right next to the rum and it almost had the same effect. Emma could feel every single one of her nerve endings.

“God, how old is this?” she asked. “It’s disgusting.”  
  
“It’s supposed to get better with age,” Killian said, pulling the flask out of her hand and Emma nearly jumped when his fingers brushed against his. He took his own drink and he didn’t make a face at the taste, just did something absurd with his eyebrows as he closed the top and tossed the flask back in the direction of the loose floorboard.

“I might just stick to slightly spiked eggnog,” Emma muttered. “How come you have flasks hidden in loose floorboards? And how are there even loose floorboards in this house? It seems too fancy for that.”  
  
“It’s old, love. That’s why. Old houses have loose floorboards. It’s a rule.”  
  
“I didn’t know houses like this existed outside of real estate magazines. I thought they were some lie realtors made up to prove that it was some kind of real profession.”

“Are you insulting the real estate profession?”

Emma shrugged and he couldn’t move his eyebrows like that while he let his hand wander across her thigh. They were in his _bedroom._ There were painfully adorable four-year-old twins down the hallway.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, coming up decidedly on the wrong side of breathless. That smirk was _stupid_.

Killian stared at her for a moment, fingers tapping out a quick rhythm against her leggings and Emma got the distinct impression he was trying to decide if he should answer. He was trying to save face.

“Hey,” Emma said, eggnog forgotten on the floor as she moved towards him and tugged on the front of his t-shirt. “It’s really ok.”  
  
“It’s bordering somewhere decidedly close to wallowing.”  
  
“You’ve listened to every single one of my sob stories and you haven’t judged. That’s a two-way street, you know.” Killian widened his eyes, but he moved his hand off her leg and wrapped his fingers around Emma’s. And she was fairly positive she nearly melted _into_ the bed when his lips brushed over her knuckles.

_Until I met you._

“I came back here after,” Killian whispered. “After I got hurt. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever play again and it didn’t seem fair to Scarlet to saddle him with that while they were still trying to make a playoff run. So I came back here and I moved back into this room and I snuck flasks underneath loose floorboards. It felt a bit like being a teenager again.”  
  
“Are you trying to tell me you snuck alcohol in here when you were a kid?” Killian nodded and his smile wasn’t quite as nervous anymore. “How very apocalyptic of you.”

“We’ve been over this Swan, horsemen. It’s different.”  
  
“She called you that today. When the Chinese food came. She said if any of the horsemen want to eat or something like that.”  
  
“Old habits,” Killian mumbled, eyes ducking away from hers.

“No, no, it was sweet,” Emma said quickly. “Like tooth achingly sweet. I’m serious, you guys give Reese’s and David a run for their money.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that’s actually a compliment, Swan.”  
  
“Trust me, it is.”

He stared at her again, something on his face shifting and Emma felt as if they’d crossed some sort of line she’d only been vaguely aware they were skating towards. And it all felt like it clicked at once – Killian Jones was a bit desperate for a family.

He had one here, in this brownstone with foster parents who used biblical terms as endearments and quasi-siblings and nicknames and a questionably intense air hockey tournament, but that hadn’t always been the case. And when the quasi-siblings left and Christmas was over, he’d still have the team and the game, but it wasn’t quite the same.

Robin had a family. Will had a still-yet-to-be-defined relationship. Even Phillip the Rookie was, according to that one rumor Ruby had told Emma two weeks before, about to move in with Aurora.

He had and didn’t all at the same time and Emma wasn’t sure if that was, somehow, worse than simply not having at it all.

She’d never been more determined in her entire life.

She was going to tell him.

If she ever got the chance – Killian moved before she could, lips catching hers and she probably shouldn’t have had that shot of absolutely disgusting rum because Emma could feel him everywhere, all at once.

Her hands traced along his side, fingers finding skin and making him jump. Emma laughed against his mouth, feeling a bit more drunk than the small amount of alcohol she’d had should have allowed. She could taste the rum on him and it felt like a shock to her entire system, particularly when his teeth moved against her lip.

She yelped – _yelped_ – hips moving of their own accord and Killian groaned softly, mouth moving away from Emma’s until he landed on her neck. “You’ve got to be quiet, love,” he said said softly, fingers back on her thighs.

Or in between her thighs.

She was a bit preoccupied with whatever he was doing with his mouth. “You’re going to leave a mark,” Emma mumbled, fumbling with the top of the sweat pants he had on.

“Take off some of these clothes and I can make sure it’s somewhere no one actually sees.”  
  
Emma gasped – but she wasn’t sure if it was from the words or the look he gave her, smile doing something absurd to her pulse as he moved down, tugging on the top of leggings. “You’re a menace,” she accused and the smile widened.

“I can stop if you want.”  
  
“Don’t you dare.”  
  
He laughed against her, sending a wave of something she couldn’t quite name down her spine and Emma gasped when she felt lips – and _teeth_ , jeez – on her waist, shirt pushed up until it was doing more to try and choke her than actually serve any sort of actual purpose.

He was taking his time, she thought, scrunching her nose at the realization. He was absolutely trying to drive her insane and if there was some sort of home ice advantage in this brownstone, Killian absolutely had it.

He moved his way back up towards her, mouth somehow working in the opposite direction of his hand and Emma’s clothes were a lost cause – half on and half off as she tried to kick the leggings off her ankles.

It didn’t really work.

Killian laughed again, breath warm against her neck. “Were you going to take this shirt off or not? It’s kind of getting in my way.”

“That so?” Emma asked. “Ah, well I’m sure the shirt is very sorry for whatever inconvenience it’s caused you.”  
  
“Off,” he said, tugging on the bunched up fabric. Emma shifted her shoulders, somehow finding an inch of space between the pillows and the blankets and _Killian_ to pull the shirt off over her head, tossing it off the side of the bed.

It landed dangerously close to the eggnog.

“We need to work on your aim, Swan.”  
  
“I was a bit preoccupied.”  
  
“That so?” he asked, hand moving again and Emma gasped again. “With what?”

She didn’t answer. She should have. She should have been able to form some sort of coherent sentence despite the circumstances, but if Emma knew if she actually started talking it would turn into something that was, decidedly, not talking.

It was safer not to answer.

She rocked her hips up instead, meeting his hand and everything seemed to recenter for a few moments. He kissed her again, lips moving over hers so quickly Emma couldn’t even begin to doubt what he was trying to do.

He was trying to get her to believe.

He’d brought her home.

Emma still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t melted into the bed, but then he pulled away from her and his eyes were soft and she could see every single emotion she’d been desperately trying to ignore for the better part of the last three months reflected in the way he kept looking at her.

And all she could think was _tell him, tell him, tell him_ – but then he kissed her again and all she could think was _get him out of so many goddamn clothes._

“We’re not exactly on even footing here,” Emma said, pulling on the front of his shirt again and somehow he’d found his way above her, legs on either side of her hips and hair falling across his face.

“What exactly is it you’re implying?” Killian asked, grinning when she rolled her eyes in response.

“That you’ve managed to get me nearly naked, but you’re, somehow, still wearing all of your clothes. Seems awfully one sided.”  
  
“Ah, well, I do have to admit that was my goal.”  
  
“See,” Emma said, moving her hand down and trailing her fingers against the front of his sweatpants. His breath caught in his throat. “You’re a clothing menace.”

Killian hummed, but his teeth bit into lower lip when her hand moved again. “Ah, well,” he mumbled, voice strained just a bit. “Because I was also slightly preoccupied.”  
  
“With?”  
  
“You, obviously.”  
  
It was a line – and not even a very good one – but he kept staring at her and Emma’s heart kept doing that weird thumping thing in her chest and she couldn’t quite catch her breath. So she came back with her own line.

Even footing. Or something.

“So prove it,” Emma said.

Once upon a time, in a corner of a restaurant and a party Emma didn’t actually want, that smirk had absolutely failed to do anything except make her roll her eyes and be vaguely certain that Killian Jones was every rumor she’d ever heard about him.

And then things changed and he’d worked his way under her skin and into her life and everyone knew and the smirk had turned into something else completely. It made Emma want to stay in that moment forever and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever felt that way.

Never. Actually.

“Always,” Killian muttered before spending the next several hours, quietly, proving his point.

It must have been an absolutely ancient house because everything seemed to creak or make noise. Emma was never going to fall asleep. Not that she was particularly _trying_ to fall asleep – not when Killian kept pulling her closer to his chest and trailing kisses along the back of her neck, chuckling slightly when he noticed the goosebumps he left in his wake.

“You know we’re going to have to get up early tomorrow,” Emma mumbled into the pillow. “You’re going to fall asleep in the middle of opening presents.”  
  
He laughed again, humming against her. “We can go to sleep, Swan.”  
  
“Actually,” Emma said quickly, twisting around to look at him before she could lose her nerve. “I was thinking maybe we could do something else.” Killian lowered one eyebrow and Emma sighed. “Not that,” she muttered.

“I’m not entirely opposed to that.”  
  
“Insatiable.”  
  
“When it comes to you, yes.”  
  
“Laying it on almost too thick, don’t you think?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “Nah, just honest. What did you have in mind then, Swan?”  
  
“I got you something.”

“What?” Killian asked, voice low and Emma wasn’t quite expecting the surprise there.

“What do you mean _what?_  It’s Christmas.”  
  
“I’m aware of the date, Swan. I just didn’t think…’  
  
She cut him off by kissing, trying to pour _something_ into the movement and she was certain it had worked when his hand found its way back to her hip. “I promise, it’s not that big of a deal.”  
  
He looked skeptical and Emma couldn’t quite cope with that, jumping off the bed towards the duffel bag he must have brought upstairs earlier that night. She pulled out the four shirts and the jeans, ignoring Killian’s quiet laughter as he sat up, the creak of the bed giving him away completely.

She took a deep breath before she turned back around, trying to straighten her shoulders or her spine. “Emma?” Killian asked quietly and she spun on the spot, pillow gripped tightly in her hands.

And if the whole word had moved before or recentered, then it seemed to freeze in that moment – Killian’s mouth hanging open and Emma’s teeth biting dangerously hard against the inside of her cheek. He’d called her Emma.

Killian moved, the bed creaking again when he kicked the blankets off his legs, walking around the mattress slowly until he was half an inch in front of her. He lifted his hand like he was nervous the stupid pillow would disappear if he touched it too hard or too quickly and Emma’s mouth was absolutely bleeding.

“You know they sell them at Chase Square?” Emma asked, not sure why she felt like she _had_ to talk. Probably so she could distract herself from the look on his face.

He shook his head, fingers finally falling on top of hers. “I didn’t.”  
  
“Yeah, they do. I saw it and I just…”  
  
She cut herself off, silently cursing herself for those nerves that wouldn’t ever seem to completely disappear. She believed him and in him and about him and anything else Emma could come up with. She’d agreed to spend the night on Christmas and hadn’t actually run away from the absurd amount of emotion every single one of their conversations seemed to be charged with.

But the moment she’d been waiting for – in the middle of the night in his childhood bedroom – had arrived and Emma found herself frozen with a forty-dollar pillow gripped tightly in her hands.

“Thank you, love,” he said, fingers working their way into her hair.

Emma had been holding her breath. She nodded once, ignoring the concern that flashed across Killian’s face, and her grip on the pillow tightened just a bit.

_Tell him._

“I love you.”

* * *

He wished he was on ice.

Garden ice if he was going to be specific.

Things were easier on the ice.

If he’d been on the ice, Killian was almost positive it wouldn’t have felt like his knees were giving out or he would have been able to breathe a bit easier or his heart probably would have kept beating.

It wasn’t.

Or at least it didn’t feel like it was.

Emma kept staring at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed and she didn’t look like she was breathing either. She looked a little disappointed.

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

This was supposed to be better. This wasn’t supposed to happen in his bedroom in the brownstone. It should have happened in his actual apartment with a view of Lincoln Center and there probably should have been flowers or something.

Emma shifted, shoulders twisting and it took Killian half a breath to realize what she was doing – and that he’d actually started breathing again. She was trying to move, to take a step back away from him and he hadn’t actually said _anything_ back.

Idiot.

She tried to pull out of his grip and he just tightened his hands around her, fingers moving up until they were wrapped around her waist, thumbs brushing just over the edge of her ribcage. Killian shook his head slowly.

“Emma,” he muttered, voice sounding far too loud in this otherwise silent childhood bedroom. There should have been flowers. And she’d caught him entirely by surprise.

Again.

She kept doing that.

He’d loved her for months, _months,_ had thought things that were decidedly on the wrong end of pushing since she’d grabbed his jersey and kissed him in Tarrytown and then she said _it_ first. He should have expected that.

She’d bought him a pillow. For Christmas.

Emma Swan was standing in his childhood bedroom on Christmas Eve – or maybe it was Christmas Day now, it must have been late – and Mrs. Vankald gave her a Rangers shirt with her name on it and she _loved_ him.

_Say something back, idiot. Don’t mention this would be easier on ice._

“Emma, love, stop moving,” Killian said again and Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, narrowing her eyes. She shifted her shoulders again, but she didn’t try and step out of his grip and that seemed like a step in the right direction.

“What?” she asked and if his voice had been loud, Emma’s was the opposite, quiet and nervous and Killian could barely hear it even just a few inches away from her.

Killian let out a soft laugh and the room felt like it was spinning. Fuck, he was happy. “This would be easier if I was on skates,” he mumbled.

Idiot.

He shook his eyes again and Emma was staring at him as if he’d just plotted out some journey to space. It kind of felt like that. “Wait, what?” she asked, voice getting a bit louder with the weight of her confusion.

_Say it back._

“Skates,” Killian repeated. “If I were on skates I’d be able to stand up easier.”  
  
“Are you having trouble standing up?”  
  
“A little, if I’m being honest.”

She bit her lip and neither one of them was really wearing clothes – bits of fabric between them that didn’t really do much to prevent his hands from landing on Emma’s skin and maybe they should sit down. She was still holding the pillow.  

Killian tugged it out of her hands and put it down on the edge of the bed and Emma was staring at her feet, eyes boring a hole into the floor. “Emma,” he said. She stiffened at that – both lips pulled back behind her teeth now – and shook her head quickly, hair hitting over her shoulders and against her cheeks.

He pulled his hand away from her waist, thumb pressing underneath her chin. “Come on love, look at me.”

She sighed softly, but lifted her head up to meet his gaze straight on and he really did nearly fall over at that – the force of _everything_ on her face making his breath catch in his throat again. “You’re staring again,” she mumbled, eyes tracing across him and Killian could feel the smile tugging on the ends of his lips.

And he still hadn’t said anything back, was far too distracted with the green in her eyes and the shirt on the floor that had her name and a 19 on the back – the fact that Mrs. Vankald had picked the number just before his hardly lost on him as soon as the t-shirt was pressed into Emma’s outstretched hands.

God, he wanted her there, and _everywhere_ if he were being perfectly honest, and he should probably tell her that.

He didn’t get a chance – and for someone who was always getting up far too early and ready for seemingly just about anything, Killian was decidedly unprepared for Emma to start muttering apologies and explanations in front of him.

“You don’t,” she started, words a bit jumbled since she hadn’t actually stopped biting her lower lip. “You don’t have to...I mean...it’s only been a couple of months and we were doing that whole under the radar thing and it was just kind of making out and…”  
  
Killian pulled his head back, blinking once and he felt his shoulders move when he took a deep breath. It still wasn’t enough oxygen.

“Emma,” he said, a bit more force in his voice than normal. She pressed her lips together. “It was never just anything.”  
  
“Stop calling me that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You _never_ call me Emma. Or at least you don’t when things are normal. You only did once before...when…”  
  
He knew when – after the opener when he’d asked her to stay and she had. This felt bigger than that.

And there was, suddenly, a surplus of oxygen in his childhood bedroom and it felt like he’d just taken a shot of that questionably old rum he’d found in his floor, something that felt a bit like fire or emotion or something equally absurd, shooting through every single one of his veins and possibly his arteries as well.

“I love you,” Killian said and it was the easiest sentence he’d ever uttered in his entire life.

He didn’t say _too_ and that felt important. There was no _I love you, too_ , because it wasn’t that – it wasn’t some sort of call and response.

This was...everything.

He still kind of wished he was on skates.

Emma didn’t move. If anything she looked like she’d frozen a bit – everything except her eyes. Her eyes kept moving and she kept blinking, gaze darting anywhere except back towards him. “Swan, c’mon, look at me,” Killian said.

“What?” she asked.

“Was that a question about wanting you to look at me or…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Emma, you’ve got to say something else. I don’t even know what you’re asking me.” She shook her head and exhaled loudly, still blinking as quickly and as often as ever. He grinned at that, thumb grazing just over the curve of her cheek and his left hand was still on her hip. “I love you,” he said again.

She rolled her eyes, head moving with the force of it, and her hand fell on his chest. “Well, that’s not even fair, you can’t wait ten thousand years to say something back and then say it twice in the span of two seconds.”

“I hardly think it was ten thousand years.”  
  
“Felt like it.”  
  
Killian laughed softly and Emma bit her lip again, but there was a smile just on the edge of her mouth. Her head fell forward slightly, forehead resting against his and this might have actually been the greatest night he could remember having in years – or _ever,_ but they’d already notched one sort of vaguely, overwhelming emotional moment in the last few minutes. One step at a time.

“I really do love you,” he muttered and she was far too close to him. She’d bought him a pillow and they still hadn’t sat down.

“That’s three times now,” Emma said, scrunching her nose slightly as she knocked her knuckles across his shoulder.

“Are you keeping track, love?”  
  
“No, no, of course not. I mean, maybe, but you know...whatever. It’s not that big of a deal.”  
  
It was. It was the biggest deal. It was the only deal that had ever mattered in the history of the entire goddamn universe.

“Of course not,” Killian said, taking a step back until his legs hit against the front of the bed. He took a deep breath when Emma crashed against him and maybe they _both_ would have been better on ice. “God, Swan, you can’t just do things like that.”  
  
She widened her eyes and she was absolutely smiling now – any sense of post-declaration nerves brought on by his complete inability to function like a normal human being gone. “See, remember when you were making promises not to throw me into things, I didn’t take into account being tugged into them. Rather forcefully.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just trying to get you to sit back down. Or lay back down. I’m not picky.”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat, moving his eyebrows quickly and Emma rolled her eyes. “You keep making that face, love,” he said, head bouncing slightly against the mound of pillows pressed up against the headboard.

“Look who’s keeping track now.”  
  
“Absolutely.”

He pulled her back against his side, arm wrapped tightly around her waist and he wasn’t sure how he was ever actually going to fall asleep. Emma’s fingers kept moving, tapping out a rhythm against the top of the shorts he’d actually managed to pull on hours before and Killian glanced down, smiling in spite of himself when he tugged her hand away.

And they might have actually stayed that way – his fingers wrapped around hers, thumb tracing across the line of her knuckles – for hours or days or maybe the next Christmas in the brownstone, but Killian would have been more than content with any of it.

“I love you,” he said again. She laughed, body shaking slightly against his side, and he probably wouldn’t ever say anything else again.

“We totally fell for the set-up,” Emma said softly, lifting her head off his shoulder.

“Ah, well you made it easy.”  
  
“Charmer.”  
  
“No, honest,” Killian countered quickly. Emma’s eyes widened a bit, blinking again as if that might have been the most surprising moment in a day that included everything from pregnancy announcements to Liam’s apparent non-retirement retirement and relationship-changing declarations in the middle of his childhood bedroom.

“Please,” Emma scoffed, knocking against his shoulder again until he dropped back dramatically, head falling in between two pillows.

“I’m serious, Swan. It was...easy.”

He winced slightly at the word and Emma raised her eyebrows skeptically, lips twisted as she propped her head up on her hand.

“It was,” Killian continued. “I mean you didn’t want that party and you’ve done so much for this team already and...this is different.”  
  
She blinked once, mouth falling open slightly and for half a vaguely terrifying second he was certain he’d said something wrong. That changed when she started kissing him.

There were pillows everywhere – pressed up against his head and underneath one of his arms and Emma had already kicked two off the end of the bed, muttering something about _hoarding_ under her breath.

And he hadn’t been lying.

It was different.

She’d shown up in New York and flipped the whole world on its head and this was _absolutely_ the year. He’d make sure.

They’d twisted around in what should have been a completely impossible motion, limbs wrapped up in each other and decorative pillows and Killian was half convinced the blanket was actually trying to strangle them both, but then Emma’s lips found his and nothing else mattered or would ever matter as much as that.

Over emotional fool – with a girlfriend who loved him back.

They fell asleep like that, not entirely comfortable, but not entirely willing to actually move either and he couldn’t quite mask his laugh when she groaned as soon as the first Christmas morning knock came on his door.

“Shut up,” Emma mumbled, smacking against his arm.

“You are very aggressive post-declarations, Swan,” Killian laughed, tightening his grip on her waist.

“Shut up.”  
  
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. All… prickly.”  
  
“Prickly? That’s the best adjective you could come up with?”  
  
“A good one I think.” The second knock came quicker than he’d expected, accompanied by Elsa screaming _Uncle Killian, we have a lot of presents out here and we’re very impatient and we can’t start without you_ , just outside the door.  

“C’mon, KJ,” Anna yelled, kicking the door now for good measure. “Mom’s already made coffee. You have, literally, no excuse not to come downstairs.”  
  
“At least not one you can mention in front of your nephews,” Emma muttered and he sighed dramatically before flipping her onto her back. And he appreciated her quick intake of breath more than he should have when there was an entire family clamoring for him to come downstairs and open presents.

“Ah, maybe prickly isn't the right adjective after all,” Killian said, smiling as he ducked his head to kiss just behind her ear. Emma’s hips moved and he could _feel_ her gasp. “What did you call me last night, Swan? Insatiable?”  
  
Her laugh turned into something decidedly different when his hand moved, fingers trailing over the side of her thigh, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop staring at her lips – particularly when she bit down on the lower one.

“You can’t just use the same word,” Emma argued and she’d closed her eyes. “That’s like using the word in the definition. Cheating.”

The third knock was almost blatantly impatient and just a bit frustrated and Killian shook his head, brushing his lips over hers.

“Ah,” he said slowly, ignoring the knock completely. “Well I’d never cheat. That’s bad form. You’d get a game misconduct for that. Maybe even a fine.”

“You can’t afford a fine.”  
  
“Excuse me, Swan, I’m doing perfectly alright. I can absolutely afford a fine.”  
  
She shook her head quickly, eyes bright and smile plastered on her face and maybe they didn’t actually have to go downstairs. Maybe they should have just spent the two days they had off for Christmas camped out in his apartment and that very comfortable bed of his and neither one of them would have to put on matching team-branded merchandise.

“That’s not what I meant,” Emma muttered, back arching when his hand moved again. “God you can’t do that, there are children outside.”  
  
“They’re preoccupied with presents. What did you mean?”  
  
“It’s an FA season,” she said quickly, as if that explained everything. “And you probably shouldn’t be getting game misconducts and fines if you’re trying to max out.”  
  
He froze, fingers tightening around her thigh slightly and Emma’s eyebrows lowered in confusion. Fuck.

“Of course I’m trying to max out,” Killian said, rushing over the words so she wouldn’t be able to hear the way his pulse picked up. He hadn’t talked to Regina about his contract in weeks, not since she’d mentioned it in the restaurant, and he should probably pay better attention to those things because Regina was usually better at that.

She’d spent the entire season last year arguing for Robin’s deal.

It didn’t really matter. They’d win the Cup and the Rangers couldn’t let him walk, not after everything he’d done for this team. Probably. They’d probably sign him. He should ask Regina. He’d told Regina to talk to Colorado.

Fuck.

“What’s the matter?” Emma asked, twisting her shoulders slightly.

“Nothing.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“I promise, Swan.”  
  
Knock four was Mr. Vankald and that just seemed unfair, the voice on the other side of the door sounding a bit _too_ much like teenage years spent trying to sneak onto public transportation and he’d always known the real reason Anna got food poisoning.

“Now, Killian,” he said and, well, that was that.

Emma laughed, smile doing something very specific to his stomach’s ability to stay in its biologically dictated place. “You look like you just got caught breaking curfew.”  
  
“I kind of feel that way,” Killian admitted.

She laughed again, rolling back onto _her_ side of the bed – and they’d managed to do that again, settle onto sides and next to each other and he should really tell Regina he might not be all that interested in getting traded at the end of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the shortest chapter in the entire story - once upon a time, both Christmas POVs were one chapter each, but they were both like...13K each, so they got split and, well, here's like 5K worth of emotions. 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and commenting and being generally fantastic. As always @laurenorder is a gem. Com flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	23. Chapter 23

He’d never seen so much wrapping paper in his entire life.

Four-year-old twins, it seemed, were the perfect age to finally understand Christmas and presents and, if they were the children of Elsa and Liam Jones, enjoyed the wrapping paper most of all. There were pieces everywhere – stuck in their hair and in the tree and, likely, every single corner of the house. Mrs. Vankald, Killian was convinced, would probably find wrapping paper taped along baseboards for the next six months.

They’d both already been changed into their yet-to-be-released t-shirts, nearly tackling Emma when Elsa suggested they thank her and if Killian’s heart didn’t actually grow three sizes in that very moment, he wasn’t sure what it could have been doing.

Maybe just exploding.

Merry Christmas.

He walked into the kitchen – intent on getting more coffee and making sure one of the twins hadn’t actually stuck any wrapping paper to the back of his shirt – to find Liam leaning against the counter, staring at him over the edge of his own mug.

“El know you’re drinking coffee?” Killian asked, reaching around him to grab the industrial-sized pot Mrs. Vankald always brought out whenever they were all back in the brownstone. “Isn’t that against the rules or something?”

Liam made a face, but he didn’t put the mug down – the steam from the tea he was probably drinking in accordance with the rules rising from the top of it. “It’s a solidarity thing,” he said. “You know, limited amounts of caffeine during pregnancy and all that.”

“I wouldn’t know that, actually, but thank you for the lesson.”

“You could,” Liam said cryptically, hopping onto the edge of the counter.

Killian rolled his eyes, taking a drink of his coffee and pointedly ignoring whatever Liam was trying to talk about. “You’re going to get yelled at.”

"I'm a man in my thirties with nearly three children, I hardly think I’m going to get yelled at for barely sitting on the edge of the counter.”

He’d always been convinced Mrs. Vankald had some sort of sixth-sense when it came to things like that and Killian laughed loudly when she walked into the kitchen, gasping when she saw Liam on the marble.

"William Jones,” she cried, almost dropping the pillow she hadn’t stopped holding since she’d nearly burst into tears unwrapping it. She was holding the card too – Killian and Emma’s name on the same line as if she were documenting it for posterity. “Get off my counter, young man!”

“Young man,” Killian muttered, widening his eyes. “That’s awfully generous, Mrs. V.”

She shook her head as Liam slid back onto the floor, eyes cast down at his socks and this was all a little too on the nose. It felt like high school. He’d never brought a girl home when he was in high school.

He’d brought Emma home. He loved Emma. They wrote both their names on the card.

“Well, young to me at least,” Mrs. Vankald amended and Killian’s sides nearly hurt he was laughing so hard, barely keeping a grip on the mug in his hand.

“Mrs. V, take away his stocking,” Liam whined. “He doesn’t deserve the candy in there. Coal instead.”

Mrs. Vankald shook her head fondly, taking a step in between them and her hand lingered on Killian’s cheek when she smiled at him. “You absolutely deserve it, Killian,” she said intently and he got the distinct impression they weren’t talking about candy or stockings or the orange he knew was in the toe of the ancient piece of felt.

"Thanks, Mrs. V,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair.

She tapped her thumb against his jaw and she had that knowing look on her face – the same one she’d used when they redecorated the house and he got them to buy twenty pillows for his room in the upstairs corner.

“It’s a good pillow, huh?” Liam added, nodding towards the hand-stitched gift pinned in between Mrs. Vankald’s elbow and hip.

She nodded and they absolutely weren’t talking about the pillow. This was absurd. “It is,” she agreed, eyes not leaving Killian’s.

"Mom,” Anna shouted from the other room and Killian didn’t care what the reasoning was for it, just happy that there was some sort of distraction so they could get out of this world of pillow metaphors and overbearing older brothers.

"Don’t let William sneak any coffee,” Mrs. Vankald said before kissing Killian’s cheek quickly and walking back out into the living room.

Killian took another drink, doing his best to avoid Liam’s gaze as he moved to put the creamer back in the fridge. “Banana can’t just leave that sitting out,” he mumbled. “It’ll go bad.”

“It was out for all of five minutes,” Liam argued. “I think we’re all safe from spoiled creamer. Stand down, Captain.”

He rolled his eyes, throat tightening just a bit when Liam called him that and he knew that was why he’d done it. It was an emotional precursor or something.

“Go ahead,” Killian sighed, hooking his foot around one of the stools in front of him. He put the mug down on the table, crossing his arms and waited.

"What are you talking about?”

"Liam.”

He smiled, nodding once as he grabbed the chair opposite Killian and sank onto the edge, sitting up a bit straighter than he would have if this were some sort of normal conversation. Killian hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this.

He was glad he hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this.

"You tell her you’re absolutely, madly in love with her yet?” Liam asked.

Killian nearly knocked the coffee onto the floor, elbow sliding off the edge of the kitchen island and the marble that matched the counters. He hissed in the air through his teeth and he’d absolutely scraped the side of his arm. “Jeez,” he muttered. “Jumped right in there didn’t we?”

"Seemed stupid to beat around the bush. Elsa doesn’t think you have.”

"El doesn’t know everything.”

Liam’s mouth dropped open and, well, turnabout was fair play or something. “When?”

"What is going on right now?” Killian asked. “Did Banana put you up to this? Between you and El, it’s like invasion of the overstepping body snatchers. You guys have never been like this ever. Not even when…”

Killian cut himself off, jaw snapping shut almost painfully and the look of pity in Liam’s eyes was worse than just about anything. “It’s different though,” he said and there was that word again. This family needed to work on its vocabulary. “Isn’t it?”

"Yeah,” Killian answered. “It is.”

"Good.”

"Good?”  
  
“Well you’ve never brought anyone home before. And you two gave Mr. and Mrs. V a present together.” Liam widened his eyes meaningfully and Killian just rolled his, shaking his head slightly and tugging on his hair. “And,” he added. “You’ve been playing better. “  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Maybe better’s the wrong word. Different.”  
  
“Find another word, Liam.”  
  
He sighed, tapping against the top of the island. “Ok, not different. Just easier. I mean I honestly have never seen you skate as fast as you have in the last couple of weeks. And that doesn’t even make sense. You’re old, you should be regressing.”  
  
“If that was supposed to be a compliment it was woefully lacking.”  
  
Liam scoffed, but he was smiling and Killian leaned back, a bit more at ease with the conversation than he had been a few moments before. Everything was easier when the conversation involved hockey.  
  
He needed to get out more. Or maybe find a hobby. Or kiss his girlfriend some more.  
  
Probably the last one.  
  
Definitely the last one.  
  
“I’m just saying,” Liam continued. “I’ve heard you’re fronting for the Hart at this point. What are you, three points away from cracking top-five?”  
  
Killian nodded, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t really thought about that much either in the last few weeks – certainly not once since Emma had shown up in his apartment lobby and agreed to come home for Christmas. A few months ago that had been all he’d cared about, winning the Cup and getting into the top-five and maybe leaving some sort of on-ice legacy in this stupid city before his inevitable decline in Colorado.  
  
Now he didn’t just want to win, he wanted...everything.  
  
He needed to come up with another word too.  
  
“It’s only December,” Killian argued. “That’s way too early to be worrying about Hart stuff. I’m just worried about the next game.”  
  
“Did Lucas tell you to say that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Liam let out a low whistle and took an incredibly exaggerated drink of tea, leveling Killian with that same, infuriating stare. “You know I was worried about this,” he said, once again failing to actually make much sense in the middle of the kitchen.  
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”  
  
“When Scarlet and Locksley called me during the preseason and told me there was this thing happening with you and how you weren’t skating because you couldn’t get your head on straight. I was worried. It’s an FA season and you guys were supposed to win last year and you didn’t and I just figured it was some sort of cry for help or something.”  
  
“You really need to work on your compliments,” Killian muttered and Liam laughed again, shaking slightly on the stool.  
  
“Yeah, probably. What I’m trying to say is, I’m not as worried anymore. And maybe you can talk to me about some stuff sometime.”  
  
Killian lifted his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You are a terrible liar. Does Emma know that? She should probably know that if you’re going to keep doing this disgusting over-the-top in love thing.”  
  
“You and El are going to have another kid, I don’t see where you get off on over-the-top in love.”  
  
“Ah, but Mrs. V didn’t give us consecutive jersey numbers did she?”  
  
“Jeez,” Killian groaned, but he couldn’t come up with any other argument.  
  
Liam looked triumphant, taking a final drink of team and all but slamming down the empty mug on the kitchen island. “You know,” he said slowly, “Gina called me the other day.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian sighed, closing his eyes lightly as he rolled his head back between his shoulders. He should really come up with a list of all the things he needed to do. Expand his vocabulary. Fire his goddamn agent. Kiss his girlfriend some more. And probably move the last one up to the top of the list.  
  
“At least you can be confident in the fact you’ve got my wife keeping secrets from me now, on more than one occasion mind you,” Liam laughed.  
  
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe El is just easier to talk to?”  
  
The question seemed to hang in the air in front of them, words lingering in between the stools on the side of the kitchen island and the coffee tasted a little bit more bitter than it had just a few seconds before. “Sorry,” Killian mumbled, staring at his feet and he’d never bothered to actually put socks on when they’d been dragged out of bed.  
  
“It did,” Liam answered, brushing over Killian’s apology with a an actual wave of his hand. “And it’s been like that for awhile, hasn’t it?”  
  
Killian shrugged, absolutely certain he was not mentally prepared for this conversation in the middle of the brownstone kitchen. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep for this type of conversation.  
  
Liam, however, seemed determined.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault, Killian,” he said for what was certainly the thousandth time. “I never thought that.”  
  
“You didn’t have to, it was just the truth.”  
  
“Emma doesn’t think so.”  
  
Killian’s head snapped up at that and Ariel was going to kill him – there was no way he hadn’t strained something at this point. “How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“Aside from the fact that she came to Christmas with you and Mr. and Mrs. V’s card had both of your names and actually volunteered to be the five-seed so she could take you on in the semis this afternoon?” Killian shrugged and Liam just shook his head, disbelief written into every corner of his face. “She and Elsa talked yesterday and Elsa is one-hundred percent convinced that not only is she one-hundred percent in love with you, but she mentioned that GD kid you two have apparently adopted. Said she thinks you’re his hero.”  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?” Killian asked.  
  
“Because she didn’t disagree when Elsa said it was different. She knows it is. And she’s only been here for a few months.”  
  
“Sounds a bit sentimental,” he argued, ignoring whatever was happening in the middle of his chest. “Even for you.”  
  
“Eh, well, it is Christmas after all. And you brought a girl home.”  
  
“Emma. I brought Emma home.”  
  
Liam grinned at him, nodding once. “You really going to coach a charity game?”  
  
“You really going to play in a charity game? Can you even do that?”  
  
“You mean can I actually get on the ice?” Killian nodded again and Liam shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I skate with the twins.”  
  
“You’re still going to have to play.”  
  
“I can do that.”  
  
Killian kept his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, that boulder of guilt that had taken up residence in the very center of his being for the last few years, moving slightly or maybe shrinking just a bit.  
  
He tried to take a deep breath and came up decidedly short.  
  
“Why?” he asked.  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why would you do that? Volunteer to play in a charity game when you’ve probably got hockey playoffs to worry about in March.”  
  
Liam pressed his lips together, shoulders straightening as he stood back up and moved to grab another tea bag off the counter behind him. “Because you’ve felt guilty long enough,” he said. “And because you brought Emma home for Christmas and I can’t remember the last time you looked so…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Happy.”  
  
He wasn’t wrong. He was almost painfully on point, but it was still early and Killian had gotten approximately three hours of sleep and he’d just noticed a piece of wrapping paper taped to the inside of his left knee.  
  
And he’d spent so much time focused on that boulder-sized guilt, that Killian had never really considered a world where it didn’t exist or didn’t have to exist – something else that was both bigger and lighter taking its place.  
  
“Did you tell her?” Liam asked again.  
  
Killian nodded. “Only after she told me.”  
  
“Good.” He took a deep breath and glanced towards the doorway to the living room, making sure Mrs. Vankald wasn’t anywhere in range when he jumped back up onto the edge of the counter. “If you try to come to the Avs, I will actually kill you.”  
  
“Gina shouldn’t have told you that.”  
  
“She was worried. And she obviously couldn’t tell Locksley. He’d probably lose the ability to skate at even the suggestion of you leaving. At least you know Elsa’s good at keeping secrets, though.”  
  
“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you honestly.”  
  
“I’d be more frustrated by that if you weren’t so disgustingly and obviously in love. What’d you get her for Christmas?”  
  
Killian shook his head – making a face at the lukewarm coffee. “Nuh uh,” he said, swinging open the refrigerator door to grab the creamer again. “That one is a secret.”  
  
“What is?” Emma asked, smile on her face as Killian nearly tripped over his own feet trying to walk back towards the coffee. “Oh, is there more coffee?” He nodded slowly, muttering a quick shut up to Liam when he moved next to her, hand falling on her back like there was a magnet there. “You alright?” she asked.  
  
“He’s always been better on ice,” Liam explained, drawing a quiet laugh out of Emma who absolutely leaned against his hand as she filled up the mug she was holding. “Although getting him to control that speed has always been a definite work in progress.”  
  
“Ah, but he’s been doing pretty well this season. Two breakaways and that one shortie.”  
  
“I’m literally standing right here,” Killian said and Emma’s smile widened when she glanced over her shoulder.  
  
“These are compliments, you can’t possibly be arguing compliments.”  
  
“Trust me, love, Liam isn’t complimenting my game. He’s just got absolutely no tact at all.”  
  
Liam grumbled something that was decidedly un-Christmas, kicking his foot against the side of Killian’s leg. Emma turned on him, tugging on the front of his t-shirt in a way that helped ease some of the weight of that boulder in his stomach.  
  
“What was this surprise, then?” Emma asked. Liam clicked his tongue again and smiled knowingly at both of them.  
  
“Nothing, Swan.”  
  
“You’re a terrible liar.”  
  
“You know that’s not the first time he’s heard that today,” Liam laughed.  
  
Killian sighed, but Emma had found her way against his side, head falling against his shoulder as his hand just managed to move with her. Liam quirked one eyebrow, eyeing both of them over the top of the mug.  
  
“William,” Mrs. Vankald yelled as she walked by the kitchen, a stack of the fancy plates in her hands. “If you don’t get off that counter, I’m going to take away your stocking.”  
  
Liam moved off the counter, mumbling under his breath as he marched back into the living room and there was a piece of wrapping paper sticking out of the back pocket of his pajama pants.  
  
Emma laughed and Killian wasn’t worried about his points total or rumors about the Hart or even how he’d managed to destroy his brother’s entire career before it even really got a chance to begin. The only thing he cared about was the feel of her next to him and the smile on her face and how much he didn’t want her to leave.  
  
“I love you,” Emma whispered, muttering the words in his ear.  
  
It was different this season.

* * *

“I still can’t believe this is how the bracket shaped up.”  
  
Killian shook his head, arm wrapped around Emma’s shoulders, and Elsa rolled her eyes, shooting an apologetic glance their direction. “You lost last year, Liam,” she said for what must have been the fifth time that day. “That’s all there is to it. You can’t be a one-seed if you’re not the reigning champ. Those are just the rules.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Liam argued, bending over to plug in the vaguely ancient machine. “That’s just stupid.”  
  
“A banner argument if I’ve ever heard one,” Killian muttered.

Emma laughed softly next to him, eyes just a bit wider than normal when they walked into the brownstone basement and he probably should have mentioned the room or Mr. Vankald’s tendency to to hang up every article that had ever mentioned either one of the Jones brothers on the walls.

There were a lot of stories and a lot of pictures and two pieces of the championship net hung up in matching frames and Emma’s eyes scanned over all of it, mouth opened slightly like she couldn’t quite believe what was in front of her.

“It’s a lot,” he mumbled, lifting his arm slightly. She tugged her hand up quickly, fingers wrapping around him and the smile on her face nearly made him fall over again. He saw Liam glance at Elsa and she made a face, lips drawn down and eyebrows lifted up and Killian resisted the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head.

“It is,” Emma agreed, but her hand was still wrapped around his wrist, thumb tracing over that one particularly nasty scar. She didn’t move away though, just kept smiling at him and it felt like something a bit bigger than two words. “Liam,” she added, glancing at his brother, still crouched in the corner of the room with an air hockey table cord in his hand. “If you keep staring like that, your face is going to freeze that way.”

Elsa laughed loudly and Anna let out a noise that was somewhere close to a cackle, doubling over with her arms wrapped around her waist. Liam just grinned in response, that same knowing look from the kitchen still on his face as he stood up and brushed his hands on his jeans.

He nodded once and Emma was still smiling, head tilted slightly in unspoken challenge. “You better beat Killian in the semis,” he said, tossing the puck onto the table. “Otherwise Christmas is just pointless this year.”

“Jeez, Liam,” Anna sighed. She leaned against the edge of the table, holding her hands just above the air holes that seemed to make more noise every year. “That’s kind of dramatic isn’t it? Also I resent the implication that I’m just going to lose by default.”  
  
“Let’s be honest with ourselves Anna,” Liam reasoned, tugging on the back of her shirt to try and get her to move. It didn’t work. “Just because you don’t care about winning does not mean that the rest of us don’t.”

“Over-competitive weirdo. Emma, tell me you’re not going to be ridiculously competitive like the rest of them?”  
  
“Hey,” Elsa shouted, flipping her hair off her shoulders. “I’m not that competitive!”  
  
Anna lifted her eyebrows, sitting on the table at this point and ignoring Liam’s loud cries of indignation that it was an _antique._ “You are, El. You know you are. It’s fine. I kind of enjoy being the only one in this family who’s actually normal. That is, of course, unless Emma is going to be normal about an _air hockey tournament_ because that’s all this is.”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma, nerves settling in the pit of his stomach and the back of his throat as soon as Anna had used the word family. Emma didn’t notice – or if she did, she didn’t say anything – just shrugged when she met Anna’s questioning gaze. “I’m a little competitive,” she admitted. “And by a little I mean, I’m totally going to destroy you in this opening round.”

Anna groaned loudly, falling back across the top of the table with a loud _thump_ that drew cries from the entire room. “Banana, if you break that, Liam’s going to have a heart attack,” Killian said, arm finally moving off Emma’s shoulders to tug his sister off the top of an air hockey table that was probably older than all of them combined.

She made a face, but let him pull her up, pulling on the front of his t-shirt for good measure. “You all are far too into this for your own good.”

Mrs. Vankald walked down the stairs, a tray balanced precariously in her hands as the twins followed behind with a questionable amount of holiday-themed candy and cookies piled into bowls. “Was it right to let the four-year-olds bring the food down here?” Killian asked, reaching forward to grab both bowls out of their hands before it all ended up on the floor.

“They’re plastic,” she said, resting the tray on the table Mr. Vankald had absolutely put together earlier that week. “And they wanted to help.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Try and argue with those faces while they’re wearing Rangers t-shirts. It’s impossible.”

Killian glanced at the two of them, Charlie already slung over Liam’s shoulder as he laughed loudly and Jacob cried about _his turn_. “It is almost painfully adorable,” he admitted.

“See,” Mrs. Vankald smiled, glancing at the bracket. “Anyway, how can you horsemen be expected to spend an entire afternoon competing against each other if you don’t have proper sustenance?”  
  
“I don’t know that I’d classify peanut butter cookies as proper sustenance, Mrs. V.”  
  
“Ah, well, don’t tell Victor. And don’t eat too many. Can’t have you dragging when you’re on the ice. Liam told me there are mutterings about the Hart.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, but Mrs. Vankald kept smiling at him like the goddamn cat who he’d eaten no less than twenty particularly delicious canaries. “It’s December,” he argued. “Plenty of time to screw things up.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
He sighed softly. “Old habits,” he muttered and Mrs. Vankald nodded sympathetically. “I’m more concerned about the team than the Hart.”  
  
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Particularly when you’ve got such important teammates.”  
  
“You’re not even trying anymore, Mrs. V. That wasn’t even close to being a cliché. That was just a heavy-handed reference.”

“I’m an old lady, give me a break.” Killian scoffed, smile on his face and Mrs. Vankald laughed laughed loudly when he bent down to kiss her cheek. “Anyway, there’s a time and a place for clichés and I’m not entirely sure this is that place.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” she repeated. “Seems a bit more important than that.”

“Heavy handed.”  
  
Mrs. Vankald moved her eyebrows and blinked quickly – a brush-off move that was almost _too_ similar to Anna and Elsa. “Honest,” she said softly, hand on his cheek again and for half a moment he felt like he was eight years old.

That was, however, until he heard Emma’s footsteps behind him, head snapping around to find her staring at him expectantly. “Liam’s getting very impatient,” she said. “He claims you should be forced to forfeit by default because you’re throwing off the entire schedule.”  
  
“Ass,” Killian muttered, earning a very pointed glare from Mrs. Vankald. He was absolutely eight years old. “Shouldn’t Mr. V and El be up anyway? They were the first ones on the bracket.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, they’re absolutely going now, but apparently there are rules.”  
  
“He’s just trying to make sure he’s got a clear road to the finals. You know I think he’s intimidated by me!”

Killian shouted the second part, pushing up on his toes for added emphasis and Liam threw his head back, laughing in response. “That’s not true at all, little brother. I am completely confident in my ability to beat whoever I face. I just think you should be playing by the rules!”  
  
Mrs. Vankald shook her head, smiling at Emma as if she were apologizing for the over-competitive tendencies of the Jones-Vankald children. “Younger,” Killian said before he could stop himself. “Younger. Brother.”  
  
“You know I think he’s got kind of a point,” Emma said and Killian snapped his head around quickly, narrowing his eyes slightly when he noticed she was smiling. “I’m just saying, you don’t even seem remotely worried about the possibility of who you’ll have to face in the semis.”  
  
“What exactly is it you’re suggesting, Swan?”  
  
Emma glanced at Mrs. Vankald, smile widening when she nodded slightly. “I’m totally coming for your title.”  
  
He felt his mouth fall open and he couldn’t quite make out what Mrs. Vankald said next to him, only vaguely aware of how bright Emma’s eyes were. He couldn’t really think straight when she was wearing team-branded.  _That_ felt a bit like cheating.

“KJ,” Anna shouted, not even bothering to look over her shoulder as she moved Elsa’s name into the next round. “Unless you’re dead set on getting bumped out of this thing and spending the day eating peanut butter cookies with mom, then you should probably come over here because Emma and I are up.”

“I haven’t even had a single peanut butter cookie,” he countered, grabbing two from the bowl. Anna turned at that, eyebrows shooting up her forehead as she took her spot at the far end of the air hockey table. “And El won already?”  
  
“I’m very impressive, KJ,” Elsa said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the word, before sinking into the couch pressed against the wall.

“Yeah and Mr. V couldn’t bring himself to beat you. The same thing happens every year.”

“Whatever. Bring me a cookie.”  
  
“Demanding.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Anna added, nodding quickly. “C’mon KJ, bring, like the whole bowl.”  
  
“Animals,” he muttered, reaching behind him anyway and they’d both planned on that. He was an enormous pushover.

And he was absolutely trying to impress Emma.

Elsa and Anna knew that too.

“Come on,” Liam whined, rolling his head between his shoulders. “Let’s go. Quarterfinal matchup between Anna and Emma.”  
  
“I think Liam might need a cookie too,” Emma said softly, lacing her fingers through Killian’s left hand as they walked backed towards the table.

It took less than five minutes for Emma to, as promised, totally destroy Anna in the opening round. She didn’t give up a point, hand moving quickly and confidently across the ancient air hockey table and she kept using the sides to bank off shots in a way that made Killian certain she’d be dominant against the boards on actual ice.

Even Liam looked impressed.

“Well, that was dumb,” Anna said when the light on the side of the table went off again and Emma was declared the winner. “What did you do last night, come down here and practice?”

Emma shook her head quickly, but her cheeks had gone slightly red and Killian noticed Elsa’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “No, no,” Emma said. “But one of the houses I grew up in had a table like this and there was no TV so there wasn’t much else to do except get ridiculously good at air hockey.”

“One of?”  
  
“Foster kid,” Emma explained, pointing to herself. Elsa’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out of her head.

Anna nodded slowly as she moved Emma’s name ahead on the bracket, but her eyes kept darting to Killian and back to Emma and then, for good measure, over to Elsa, who appeared as if she were on the verge of some sort of emotional outburst.

“Eat another cookie, Banana,” Killian said, sliding the bowl along the edge of the table. He ignored Liam’s cries about, somehow, damaging the thing – it was made of _plastic,_ there was no way to scratch it with other plastic – and she didn’t argue.  
  
He appreciated that.

“Alright,” Liam said sharply, earning four pairs of rolled eyes. “Next up.”  
  
“That’s you, Liam,” Killian pointed out.

“Right. You ready Elsa?”  
  
She sighed, tilting her head to the side of the couch and for the first time all afternoon Liam didn’t appear quite as competitive. “Are you?”  
  
“Was that trash talk?”  
  
“That was about as trash as my talk is going to get, so yeah, it was.”

Liam laughed softly, holding his hand out to help her off the couch. “That was good. I’m super intimidated. Now, come on, prep yourself to lose again.”  
  
“The epitome of romance,” Anna laughed, falling back across the seat Elsa had just gotten out of. She shot Killian a meaningful look and they shouldn’t have stayed this long. They should have absolutely gone back to his apartment. This was almost _too_ much family.

Emma, however, didn’t seem to mind – smile still on her face and she kept resting her head on his shoulder and maybe this could work.

Maybe those old habits could just be….old.

Liam won. Elsa was not pleased about it, a fact she mentioned several times while Anna moved Liam’s name into the championship round of the tournament. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and the twins had lost all interest at this point – already back upstairs with Mrs. Vankald and probably hopped up on a questionable amount of sugar – but Elsa looked like she was disciplining them both.

Except she wasn’t.

She was yelling at Liam. Because he’d beat her in the semifinals of an annual air hockey tournament.

“I won fair and square,” he said and that appeared to be the only response he had. Anna was hysterical. That didn’t seem to be helping the situation.

“Your arm was halfway across center ice,” Elsa shot back. “You won on a faulty goal. I want to challenge.”  
  
“There’s no replay, El,” Killian said, trying to intervene before she actually started throwing cookies at Liam. It was a fine line to walk. He probably would have been pretty entertained by that.

“Well, that’s stupid.”  
  
“Don’t you have a ref?” Emma asked. “You should probably have a ref.”  
  
“Mom won’t do it anymore,” Anna said, not even bothering to actually sit up. “She said we all got too aggressive or something.”  
  
“Apocalypse children,” she muttered in Killian’s ear and he bit his lip tightly so he wouldn’t do something stupid like start making out with his girlfriend while Elsa and Liam continued to argue about faulty goals.

“Fine, fine,” Elsa said finally, waving her hands through the air. “Emma you better absolutely destroy KJ and then you can beat Liam in the finals. Otherwise I’m protesting this entire tournament on principle.”  
  
Emma made a face. “No pressure or anything.”  
  
“C’mon Swan,” Killian said, nudging her shoulder to walk towards the other side of the table. “Let’s see if you can back up the talk.”  
  
“I think I proved that already.”  
  
“Nah, that’s just Banana. That hardly even counts as a win. Now you’ve got some real competition, let’s see what you’re made of.”  
  
“That ego.”  
  
“Wreck him Emma,” Elsa said, squeezing her arm tightly as Liam turned the machine back on.

He’d argue that it wasn’t _really fair_ – Emma had an entire cheering squad behind her, Elsa and Anna not even bothering to sit back down during their semifinal matchup, a two-person pep team that, at one point, was actually so loud Mrs. Vankald came back downstairs to see _what all the racket was about._

And Liam didn’t really want him to win either because Liam didn’t want to lose another year in a row and Killian should have known going in he didn’t really stand a chance.

He scored the first two goals of the game, but that was probably all part of her plan, lulling him into a false sense of security or something, before she turned the metaphorical table on the literal table, firing off five goals in a row.

She moved her wrist so quickly Killian barely even noticed when she shot again, puck bouncing off the side of the table and around his outstretched hand like it wasn’t even there.

He’d tried – he wasn’t about to _let_ Emma win, he was the goddamn captain of the New York Rangers, he had _some_ pride, but she’d won anyway and made it look easy. There was probably a message in there or a cliché or some sort of heavy-handed romantic explanation, but Killian didn’t care.

He just smiled when Emma threw her hands up, the exclamation she let out at her championship berth settling into every single one of his pores until he was almost positive nothing else would ever sound quite as good. Anna threw her hands around Emma and she stiffened for half a moment before moving her own arms and Elsa was actually jumping up and down, brushing off Liam completely when he said something about _overexerting herself._

“She’s so much better than you, KJ,” Anna said after she’d pulled herself away from Emma. He just shrugged.

“Told you,” Emma muttered, walking around the table and for half a moment he forgot they were in the brownstone, forgot about the quasi-siblings and overprotective older brother and a half-eaten bowl of Christmas cookies. He forgot about all of it as soon as he felt Emma kiss him, quick and light and just long enough to earn a groan out of Liam.

Killian didn’t care.

“Look who’s got the entire Vankald-Jones family under their very talented thumb, love,” he said, keeping his forehead against hers, close enough that he could barely see her smile when she looked back up at him.

He kissed her that time.

“Five minutes,” Liam said, sounding every bit the _leader_ Scarlet and Locksley still referred to him as. “Then we’re going to championship.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s a verb,” Emma pointed out, twisting around to look at Liam. Her hands didn’t leave Killian’s shirt and Elsa still looked like she was about to cry.

“I’m making it one.”  
  
“I mean I live with a teacher, so I’m just saying…”  
  
“Five minutes,” he repeated and Emma nodded like it was the most serious thing in the world.

She beat Liam too.

She won the entire goddamn tournament and she looked a bit stunned when even Liam had to admit that she was _the best player they’d ever had_ in the competition.

It wasn’t even as close as the semi against Killian had been – Emma scored the first goal, Liam answered and then she seemed to refocus, firing off three goals in three straight shots and the entire basement was stunned silent.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Elsa said. “And maybe it’ll get him to shut up about how he was cheated out of a win for the last four years. See, it’s not just KJ. You’re just not that good at air hockey, Liam.”  
  
“Whoa, El, that’s kind of rough,” Killian laughed and his arm had found its way back around Emma easily, something that felt a bit like pride in his chest. It was an air hockey tournament – nothing more than another Jones-Vankald tradition that was somewhere bordering between sentimental and just ridiculous, but as with most things Emma Swan, she’d surprised him again. She’d found a way into all of it with ease, winning the entire, stupid thing and cementing herself in the middle of everything.

And probably the middle of his entire life.

He should tell Regina not to talk to Colorado. And then win the Stanley Cup so the Rangers would want to sign him again.

“I should probably have mentioned I’m also pretty competitive,” Emma said, laughing at the scandalized expression on Liam’s face. “I’m not real big on the whole idea of losing.”

“You’ll fit in just fine here then,” Anna promised. Killian waited for Emma to shift against him, for those nerves to flare back up and the walls to come back even just a little, but they didn’t. She just laughed again and nodded, grabbing the last cookie out of the bowl they’d left precariously on the edge of the table.

They’d eaten a whole bowl of cookies.

They stayed for dinner and Mrs. Vankald brought out a different set of _fancy_ plates Killian wasn’t even aware they owned. She was trying to impress Emma too and he’d probably have to thank her at some point.

And Emma complimented the absolutely disgusting bread pudding, glancing his direction when he moved his hand over her knee. She grimaced slightly when she took her third bite of the disgusting mess masquerading as some sort of dessert, but she smiled when Elsa asked, again, if she liked it, nodding enthusiastically enough to almost make it look like she was being honest.

The twins fell asleep early – a day spent crumpling up wrapping paper was, after all, exhausting – and there was more eggnog and _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ on the TV, Emma’s head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her eyelashes kept fluttering, blinking quickly to try and stay awake as she burrowed against his side, gripping the front of his t-shirt tightly.

Elsa didn’t even make it to the Ghost of Christmas Present, breathing evening out almost as soon as Mrs. Vankald dimmed the living room lights. Liam kept moving his fingers over her arm, keeping up the rhythm to the song the muppets were singing while Anna tiptoed out of the room as soon as her phone went off.

“Gross,” Killian muttered when she stood up, moving his eyebrows meaningfully as Kristoff’s face flashed across her phone screen.

“You brought a girl home, KJ,” she said and she really had done her best to make it sound like an insult. It fell a bit short with muppets singing in the background and Emma’s legs curled up underneath her, knees hitting against the side of his thigh.

He hummed in agreement and Emma shifted slightly, blinking up blearily when she lifted her head to look at him.

And Killian Jones, captain of the goddamn New York Rangers, apparent front-runner for the Hart Trophy, couldn’t quite breathe.

“I totally wasn’t asleep,” she said.

“Of course not, love.”  
  
“Just resting my eyes. You’re comfortable or something.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
She glanced at the TV, grumbling slightly when she realized she’d slept through the entire _present_ arc and Ebenezer Scrooge was staring down his own mortality. “I might have fallen asleep for a little while,” Emma admitted.

“Well to be fair, El fell asleep before the movie was even on, so you won that particular competition too.”

Emma laughed softly, rolling her shoulders as she sat back up and brushed her hair off her forehead. “That’s something, I guess.”

“You don’t have to move, Swan.”  
  
“If I keep sitting that way I’m going to have to schedule twice-a-week appointments with Ariel so she can fix my spine.”  
  
“You guys mind shutting up?” Liam asked, not looking away from the TV. “We're all watching this and realizing life’s worth living or something.”  
  
“Or something,” Killian muttered, bending slightly to kiss the top of Emma’s head. She shifted again, slinging her legs across his. “He’s never once cared about this movie as much as he has in this moment.”  
  
“Shh,” Emma chastised, fingers finding their way into the bottom of his hair. “You’re going to wake Elsa up.”  
  
“Too late,” Elsa said, voice scratchy as Liam groaned when she used him as a human springboard to sit back up. “Oh, I missed everything.”

Killian laughed. “Snored through the whole thing too.”

“No, I did not!”  
  
“Freight train, El.”  
  
“Shut up, KJ. Liam, I wasn’t was, I?”  
  
“Of course not,” Liam promised, widening his eyes meaningfully at Killian. Emma’s eyes were closed again, hand back against his side and the other arm splayed across his stomach.

“Don’t fall asleep on me again, Swan,” Killian said, not quite able to keep his hand from trailing through her hair. He was far too aware of Liam and Elsa’s eyes on him, that _knowing_ look they both kept shooting his direction for the past thirty-six hours likely plastered on their faces again. “Come on, love, I’ve got to call a car and then we can go home.”  
  
She nodded, cheek brushing against the front of his t-shirt and he only realized he’d used _that_ word when he saw the look on Elsa’s face, all wide-eyed and mouth hanging open when they walked by the couch.

Mrs. Vankald pressed a tupperware container filled to the brim with cookies in Emma’s hands – "She’s not going to let you leave empty-handed, Swan, just take them" – and Anna hugged her again, thanking her for _absolutely destroying Liam’s weird air hockey ego_ as Elsa did her best to keep the twins from tackling both of them in the foyer of the brownstone.

“I expect a rematch next year,” Liam said, holding his hand out to Emma. She took it without question, not even blinking at the assumption that they’d simply be spending next Christmas there as well.

“I’ll probably beat you then too,” Emma countered and even Liam looked a bit impressed.

“I look forward to it.”

Elsa moved forward – and Killian tried not to cringe at the fact that they’d somehow wound up in an actual line to say goodbye to them – smile on her face and hands on Emma’s arms before she pulled her into another hug as well.

“I’m so glad you were here,” she said and there was no way to doubt she met every single letter. “Even if you might have actually ruined Liam’s Christmas.”  
  
“I’m glad I was here too,” Emma promised. Killian didn’t think he missed the way she tightened her arms slightly. “It was so nice to meet you.”

“We’ll see you guys at the B’s game on Friday,” Elsa said. “Or, well, at least after. You’ll probably be kind of busy during the game.”  
  
Emma nodded and Killian wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually stop smiling at this point. “And,” Elsa continued, “Don’t let KJ make you pretend to like the bread pudding next Christmas either. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”  
  
He stopped smiling. “El, are you kidding me?” he asked, half shouting the question in the middle of the foyer as Emma pulled on her jacket.

“Of course I’m serious. You can lie about it. In fact you’re required to because I know everything about you and I can blackmail you into that if I want, but don’t make your girlfriend do it too. That’s just patronizing.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“There. That’s my Christmas gift to you.”  
  
“You’re on a whole other level.”  
  
“Always.” He rolled his eyes, but Elsa was already hugging him and he could still hear Emma’s quiet laughter behind him. “It’s a good thing, KJ,” she added, whispering the words in his ear. She wasn’t talking about bread pudding.

Killian nodded as she pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck, squeezing once more for good measure. A car honked outside the door. “Let’s go home, Swan,” he said, repeating _that_ word again just to see if it would get a reaction.

It did.

Emma smiled at him and nodded, hand finding his as they walked out the door.

* * *

“Not really all that into decorating when you’re not being forced to string garland, huh?” Emma asked, voice still tinged with sleep from the car ride back uptown. Her eyes scanned the apartment and its distinct lack of decorations and Killian shrugged, not quite sure he could come up with an answer that wasn’t somewhere in the realm of slightly to moderately depressing.

“Ivy, Swan,” he said instead, meeting her lifted eyebrows with his own. She twisted her lips up and she very clearly didn’t believe him. And that might have been why he hadn’t really asked if she wanted to go back to Mary Margaret’s loft twenty blocks further uptown.

It had been a vaguely overwhelming few days, but she’d won the air hockey tournament and she didn’t flinch when he used the word home – twice.

So he brought her home.

Again.

He flicked on the light next to Emma’s head – she was still leaning against the back of the door, hair fanned out over her shoulders and her eyes weren’t even entirely open, blinking a bit slower than normal. She groaned loudly when he tapped on her shoulder, leaning forward with a huff to rest the top of her head on his chest and he twisted the deadlock behind her.

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“Between?”  
  
“Ivy and garland.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, hand finding its way around her waist as he tugged her farther into the apartment. Emma toed out of her boots and slid her arms out of her jacket, moving towards his room without even asking.

“Mr. V would be scandalized to even hear you suggest that there isn’t a world of difference between ivy and garland.”  
  
“There were a lot of double negatives in that sentence. I’m too tired for that.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t fall asleep in the car.”  
  
“I didn’t say that I had,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and stumbling over her feet slightly. She huffed again, pushing her hair behind her ears, and she didn’t look at him again until she’d walked into the room and, promptly, collapsed onto his bed, knocking four different pillows onto the ground as well.

Killian paused for a moment and it was a bit….something. Overwhelming wasn’t the right word anymore. He wanted her there, in between the pillows and the blankets with sleep clouding her eyes and hair everywhere and she’d already tugged up the comforter, wrapping it around her legs as she twisted onto her sides.

It wasn’t overwhelming or even really all that surprising. She’d gone to the brownstone for Christmas after all. It was something else and if he were the kind of person who actually stayed in college for four years, he probably would have been able to come up with a word for it.

“Were you just going to stand there?” Emma asked, shaking him out of his thoughts. “Or were you actually going to tell me the difference between garland and ivy?”  
  
He laughed softly, twisting back into the hallway quickly to flip off the light and appreciating Emma’s quiet hum of _impressed._  “Fancy apartment,” he muttered, stepping into the room and sinking onto the corner of the bed. “And ivy is alive. Or it was, at some point. Garland is just glorified plastic.”  
  
Emma eyed him incredulously, pushing up on her forearms. “Glorified plastic,” she repeated slowly, enunciating the words until she couldn’t quite mask her laughter. And then she looked as if she’d laugh for the rest of time, falling back on the pillows as her whole body shook with it, eyes closed and mouth open and blanket still wrapped around her legs.

“Alright, alright,” Killian muttered. “And I don’t know where you’re getting off with your lack-of-decoration opinions. It’s not as if there was some sort of tree monstrosity in your apartment either.”  
  
“That’s because it’s not my apartment. Reese’s and David hung lights, you just obviously weren’t very observant.”  
  
“There wasn’t a tree.”  
  
“Tree monstrosity.”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“They’re going to be in Maine all week, there was no point.”  
  
“And you probably wouldn’t water it,” Killian added, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She hit him with a pillow.

“See, now, that’s just rude.  
  
Killian laughed, leaning on his side and propping his head up on his right hand. Emma was still on her back, eyes staring a hole into his ceiling, but she was still smiling and she’d grabbed another pillow, holding it tightly in her hands.

“You know,” he said slowly, blinking once when Emma turned towards him. She brought the pillow with him. “We could do something about that.”  
  
“Your lack of faith in my ability to water a Christmas tree consistently? And where would they even buy a real tree? This is New York.”  
  
“Have you even been outside in the last two months, Swan? There are real, live trees on every corner. December up here is like living in the middle of Central Park.”  
  
“And yet you don’t have a tree.”  
  
He pursed his lips, trying to come up with some sort of plausible excuse as to why he didn’t have a tree – and he all he had was the decidedly depressing reason that he just hadn’t really seen the point if there was no one else there anyway.

“Alright,” Killian said suddenly, practically leaping back off the bed. Emma’s eyes widened. “You want a tree? Let’s get a tree.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked, tugging the blanket up around her shoulders. She lowered her eyebrows, tugging her lips behind her teeth and she was absolutely staring at him like he had just lost his mind. He might have.

“Let’s go get a tree.”  
  
“It’s ten o’clock on Christmas.”  
  
He shrugged, undeterred. They were going to get a goddamn tree and they were going to put it in the middle of the living room or maybe his bedroom and it was going to be disgustingly adorable and so _Christmas_ that he was absolutely positive it would work.

It didn’t matter if it was ten o’clock on Christmas.

“There’s got to be something,” Killian promised. Emma didn’t lift her eyebrows. “This is supposed to be the city that never sleeps or whatever.”  
  
“Now you really do sound like a guide book.”

Killian grinned at her, grabbing his shoes from the spot just inside the door, glancing around to find Emma’s only to remember she’d left them in the living room. “Bring the blanket with you,” he said, nodding towards the fabric twisted around her shoulders still.

“You’re serious about this?” Emma asked, tugging her hair over her shoulder.

He nodded, grabbing a team-branded sweatshirt off the back of a chair in the corner of the room. “There’s a spot around the corner that’s been selling trees for eight weeks. They’ve got to have something left.”  
  
“It’s Christmas though.”  
  
“You’ve now pointed out that it is a holiday several times, love. I knew that before we decided to get a tree.”  
  
“Oh, we’ve decided now?” She was laughing, eyebrows finally back to their appropriate spot on her forehead as she slid forward on the bed.

“Yup,” Killian answered, nodding once again for good measure. He grabbed another sweatshirt out of his closet, pausing only long enough to wonder how many sweatshirts he actually had in his closet, before tossing it towards Emma. She caught it one-handed, shrugging the blanket off to pull the fabric over her.

It didn’t fit. It wasn’t even close to fitting her, fabric hanging down below her hips as she pulled the hood up over her hair. “Alright,” she said and the word seemed to sink into him and over him and through him and probably some other verb when Emma’s hand landed on his chest. She was biting her lip, but the nervous look that normally came with _that_ particular move weren’t anywhere in her expression.

She looked excited.

She looked exactly how Killian felt.

They only paused long enough for Emma to push her feet back into her boots and she brought the blanket with her, doing her best to keep it from dragging on the sidewalk in front of his apartment as they walked three blocks down towards the tree stand he’d passed almost every day on his way to the downtown one.

And Emma’s shoulders visibly sagged as soon as they crossed the street, the tiny little stand covered in brown canvas.

He could see a few tiny, castoff trees sticking out of the side, tied up as if whoever ran the stand wasn’t even particularly concerned with the status of any of them. No one wanted castoff trees. There was a metaphor there.

“Damn,” Emma muttered, sighing softly as she pulled up the end of the blanket again.

Killian just shook his head, tongue running over his lip and that same determination was back. They were going to get a Christmas tree. If these were castoff trees then, well, they’d have cast-off trees and they’d get _something_ to put on it and the metaphor was practically slapping him in the face now.  
It kind of felt like getting knocked into the boards.

“You think you can play lookout, Swan?” he asked, glancing to his side.  She blinked once and that was as long as it took for her to understand what he wanted to, eyes darting down the otherwise abandoned block before she nodded deftly.

“Pirate,” she accused.

“Does this count as pillaging or plundering?”  
  
“Maybe a bit of both?

“A perfect Christmas tradition then.”

She laughed softly, turning her back on him to glance down the sidewalk as Killian tugged on the edge of the canvas. There was rope involved and he hadn’t really been expecting that, grunting slightly when he tried to pull the knot apart.

“God, shut up,” Emma laughed. “You’re going to give us away.”  
  
“Yeah I’m sure all these people on the sidewalk can hear me.”  
  
“Hey, if you’re going to be sarcastic, then you can be your own lookout.”  
  
“You know how to untie knots, Swan?”  
  
“I know how to pick locks.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’ll help,” Killian said, tugging on the rope again, hoping it would just dissolve in his hand. It didn’t.  
  
Emma glanced over her shoulder, clicking her tongue when she saw him, more or less, just yanking on the knot in front of him. “Oh, well, that’s just sad,” she said, tugging on the back of his sweatshirt until he moved out of the way. “Go play lookout, Captain. I’ve got this.”

He didn’t argue – something about the certainty in her gaze making him agree without a single word – and it took her all of fifteen seconds to exclaim softly, canvas opening when the knot wasn’t much of a knot anymore.

“How’d you do that?” Killian asked, grabbing the first castoff tree in front of him and resting it against the front of his sweatshirt. Emma shrugged, already retying the knot, fingers moving quickly and if he hadn’t known they’d just stolen a Christmas tree, Killian would have been certain the knot had stayed in tact the entire day.

“I was in...Florida,” Emma mused, pulling on the rope to make sure the knot stayed in place. “I think it was Florida and one of the kids in the house had a book about knots. I know how to tie at least half a dozen different knots.”  
  
“A book about knots? I think you’re the one who’d make a pretty good pirate, Swan.”  
  
She hummed, scrunching her nose slightly when she noticed that the bottom of the blanket landed in the snow. “Kids keep things in houses like that. You know, trinkets or mementos or something from good moments. It happened in every house I went to. I guess that kid had a thing for knots.”  
  
“Like that blanket you’ve got in Mary Margaret’s apartment?” he asked, hauling the tree onto his shoulder. It wasn’t very big.

Emma’s mouth hung open and the entire blanket nearly landed in the snow. “How did you know that? Did Reese’s tell you that?”  
  
“No, no,” Killian said quickly. “But you had on Thanksgiving. It was on the couch.”  
  
“And you remembered that? From one night?”  
  
He shrugged, not quite worried about _pushing_ anymore, but still a bit wary of overstepping some invisible barrier or scaling walls he was certain he’d all but knocked down at this point. “It seemed important to you.”  
  
Her eyes moved quickly, tracing over his face like she was looking for some reason to not believe him and she bit her lip again when she couldn’t find anything.

Kissing was a bit difficult with a Christmas tree on his shoulder and a blanket in between them, but Emma moved and Killian could feel her smile when her lips hit his.

“Do you think we should leave money for the tree or does that kind of take away from the pirate theme?” Emma asked, hands still on his chest.

“Seems kind of Scrooge-like if we don’t, doesn’t it?”

“Look at you mixing your references like that.”  
  
“Feel free to tell me how impressed you are by it, Swan.”  
  
“So impressed,” she laughed, widening her eyes. “Where would we even leave the money?”  
  
“I have no idea, but if we’re going to do this we should probably figure it out before someone catches us stealing a Christmas tree.”  
  
Killian shifted the tree, making a face when Emma clicked her tongue muttering something that sounded like _an extra day of PT_ under her breath and fished his wallet out of his pocket, holding it out for her. She eyed it cautiously until he pressed it into her palm.

“I’ve only got so many hands, love,” he said.  
  
She shook her head quickly – like she was was trying to wake up from something or wondering if maybe she _should_ wake up from something – and pulled the wallet open. “Twenty?” she asked. “I mean it’s kind of a lame tree.”  
  
“Are you insulting our tree, Swan?”  
  
“No, no, of course not. I...I love our tree.”

“That was kind of the point.”  
  
“Another plan, well executed.”  
  
“You know,” Killian said slowly, grinning as Emma stuffed the bill underneath the canvas in between a slightly fuller tree branch. “I think we just notched some sort of Christmas crime-miracle, Swan.”  
  
The ends of her mouth quirked up as she turned back around and she nodded as she took a step back towards him. “I think that might be right. Come on, Jones, we’ve got to make sure that tree gets properly watered.”

The Duane Reade at the end of his block was still open when they walked back and the seasonal aisle was a bit depressing, but there was one package of plastic ornaments that wasn’t broken or dented and they needed ornaments.

The cashier stared at them when they walked up, mouth opening slightly at the tree still resting on Killian’s shoulder. “Aren’t you…” he trailed off, glancing across the shield on the front of his sweatshirt.

“Probably,” Killian agreed.

Emma laughed about _that_ for what felt like hours, even after they were back in the apartment, hot chocolate in respective hands – a questionable amount of cinnamon in Emma’s – and the tackiest garland they could find on the tree. “You know,” she said softly, kneeling down to wrap the sparkly, silver garland around the bottom of the tree. “I've never had a tree. Or, at least, I’ve never picked out a tree myself.”  
  
“To be fair, we did steal it.”  
  
“We paid for it!”  
  
“Someone’s going to steal that twenty dollars and you know it.”

“Scrooge.”  
  
“I thought we decided on pirate,” he said, holding his hand out when Emma tugged the end of the garland underneath a final branch. She took it, letting him tug her up against his side and something seemed to settle when she rested her head on his shoulder again.

The boulder in his stomach was almost gone completely.

“How come they call you KJ?” she asked, voice so soft he barely even heard the question. He hadn’t really been expecting that.

“El and Banana?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“It’s a long story.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Emma muttered. “As long as that’s ok. I didn’t really ask.”  
  
“It’s better than ok, Swan,” Killian promised, kissing the top of her hair like that somehow proved his point. He moved them towards the couch, propping his legs up on the coffee table and Emma twisted hers back over his knees, curled up against him. “Alright,” he started, “Well, you know the beginning.

I was eight when we moved into the brownstone and it had been this whole process getting us down there and the whole time it went on, everyone just referred to Liam and I as a unit. The Jones brothers. That was it. We were a package deal and that was fine, but it also made it seem like nothing was ever really mine.

It was El. Of course. She started calling me KJ and at first I kind of hated it, which is why Banana started doing it, but they kept doing it and it just kind of stuck. I can’t tell you the last time either one of them actually called me by name.”  
  
He sighed softly, closing his eyes lightly and Emma shifted against his side. “Something out of a storybook,” she whispered.

“What?”  
  
“Your family. All of them. It’s like something out of a storybook. I’ve never...I’ve never seen anything like that before.”  
  
“You got them on their best behavior, that’s why.”  
  
“You tell ‘em to do that?”  
  
“Maybe,” he said, shrugging slightly. Emma grumbled when he moved, shifting her until she was sitting up straight again. “You know it’s still Christmas.”  
  
“Barely, it must be close to midnight.”

“That means I’ve still got some time then.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“To give you your gift, obviously.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked and he appreciated the surprise in her voice a bit more than he expected. “You didn’t have to do that.”  
  
“You bought me a pillow,” Killian pointed out, pulling himself off the couch as he moved back down the hallway and into his room and the drawer next to his bed. He found what he was looking for in half a breath and two seconds.

Emma was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch when he turned the corner into the living room, the Rangers pillow in her hands and her hair pulled over one of her shoulders. “You really didn’t have to do this,” she said again.

“We’ve been over this, Swan. Afraid I’m not very good at wrapping, though.”  
  
He sank onto the edge of the coffee table – and he wasn’t sure if it was the look on her face or the sudden reappearance of _anxious_ in his stomach, but he needed to this before he lost his nerve.

“Give me your hand, love,” Killian muttered and Emma held her palm up expectantly. He took a deep breath and dropped the laces in her hand.

She narrowed her eyes and he understood – it wasn’t quite as obvious as a pillow. “Are these,” she said slowly, “laces? Jersey laces?”  
  
“Yeah, mine to be specific.”  
  
“Yours?”  
  
Killian nodded and Emma’s breath caught when she realized they’d been knotted together. “From the jersey you made Kristoff let you borrow.”  
  
“How’d you manage to pull that one off?”  
  
“He owes me.”  
  
“Of course he does,” Emma muttered, teeth tugging on her bottom lip again. Her eyes hadn’t left the laces, twisting the ring in between her thumb and her forefinger. That wasn’t really helping the nerves in his stomach.

“You don’t have to actually wear it, Swan. It’s just El said they should be tied together or there wasn’t really a point…”

“El said?”  
  
“Oh fuck,” he mumbled. “I definitely asked.”  
  
Emma smiled and she wasn’t biting her lip anymore, eyes finally meeting his. “That is disgustingly adorable.” She twisted her lips and he was fairly positive she actually glanced at the tree before she took another deep breath, holding the laces in one hand. “You want to do the honors, then?” she asked and her voice didn’t shake at all.

Killian nodded slowly – a million and _two_ thoughts and explanations and he should have told her why he was doing this, but that was treading close to _overly_ sentimental, something not even in the realm of storybook anymore, just melodramatic, romantic nonsense. He was fairly certain Emma deserved a bit of melodramatic, romantic nonsense.

And he wanted her to have _something,_ something that was _his_ because nothing had really ever been his except this team and, now, maybe, this.

Except this might have been theirs.

He pulled the laces out of her hands and slid them around her wrist, tugging her hand up to kiss along the line of her knuckles.

“Sap,” Emma muttered and he laughed against her fingers.

“Absolutely.”  
  
Killian moved back onto the couch, sinking into the corner and leaning back until his legs were stretched out and Emma pulled herself flush against his side, hair falling in his face. “It’s a good tree,” she said softly. “And we should probably go on a date at some point.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“A date. This is me asking you out. On a date. Like a real date, not just this couch.”  
  
“What’s wrong with this couch?”

“Nothing. At the end of the date. Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“Depends how the date goes, I guess.”  
  
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”  
  
Emma scoffed. “Not only are you a giant sap, you are also, apparently, ancient.”  
  
“Rude,” he laughed. “And you can’t keep surprising me like this, Swan. It’s hardly fair.”  
  
“Was it a surprise?”  
  
“Well we haven’t been on a date before.”  
  
“So let’s fix that. Post-Christmas date.”  
  
“Alright,” Killian agreed and he probably should have done that from the get-go. “On one condition.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Let me plan it.”  
  
Emma twisted slightly, propping her chin up and he hadn’t actually taken the sweatshirt off yet. “For real?”  
  
“You literally plan things for a living, Swan. I can plan one night out. C’mon, let me take care of this.”  
  
She considered it for a moment, but then her chin moved. “Yeah,” Emma said. “Ok.”  
  
“Ok.”

They fell asleep on the couch and Emma pulled the Rangers pillow up off the ground, pushing it underneath her head and on his chest and the sun practically shined off the tacky, silver garland when they woke up the next morning.


	24. Chapter 24

“I’m putting you on the list,” Ruby announced, sinking into the chair in front of Emma’s desk without any more explanation or preamble. She all but launched her feet on top of the wood, nearly knocking over a nameplate, three piles of papers and Emma’s work phone.

Emma held her hands up and shook her head while Ruby continued to glare at her, staring at her as if being put on some _list_ was actually the worst thing in the world. It might have been and Emma still wouldn’t have cared.

She was happy – with a capital ‘H’ and probably a few underlines and maybe an exclamation point or two just to really drive the point home.

And, for the first time since she’d gotten to New York, she didn’t feel like there was a caveat to that happiness.

She just was.

Two days after Christmas and the stolen tree and falling asleep on the couch, they’d shown up hand in hand at Eric’s restaurant and the world hadn’t ended. In fact, nothing really changed. Everyone knew. Except Will.

Will punched Killian’s shoulder – a particularly dangerous move considering he was still balancing rather precariously on the one crutch he deigned to use – and shouted about how they were both _lying liars who lied_ for a solid twenty minutes until Belle pulled him away, muttering a soft apology in his wake.

Mary Margaret smiled the entire night and Emma was fairly convinced she simply had different muscles in her face than the rest of the human population because there was no way one person could smile that much. Mary Margaret did, probably, because Emma was. Smiling that was, constant and consistent and her jaw kind of hurt, but it seemed worth it when she remembered how goddamn happy she was.

She was really happy.

It’d been two weeks since Christmas – the slump not quite a slump after they beat the Bruins, but it wasn’t exactly a streak either, still stuck in Wild Card territory after the turn towards January. The penalty kill still absolutely sucked – a fact that seemed to be slowly driving Killian insane, muttering something that sounded like _It’s a matter of pride, Swan_ after they gave up another power-play goal the night before – but, at this point, they were still playoff-bound and All-Star nominations were slated to come out...in a few hours.

Ruby clicked her tongue, snapping Emma back into the conversation and she tapped the bottom of her heel impatiently on the edge of the desk.

“You’re going to knock everything over,” Emma muttered, tugging a pile of papers towards her.

Ruby didn’t look impressed. “The list, Em,” she said again. “I’m putting you on it.”  
  
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You know what today is?”  
  
“All-Star day.”  
  
Ruby nodded seriously as if an All-Star game that most players found more an inconvenience than an actual honor was something particularly important. “You know what I am?”  
  
“A distraction? One that’s making it very difficult for me to actually make sure I have enough auction items for the Casino Night auctions?”  
  
“Well that’s just rude.”  
  
“And true. What do you think you almost just knocked over?” Emma held up a handful of papers, lines of merch and Merida-created-spreadsheets printed on the front and back. There were a lot of auction items.

“Please,” Ruby sighed. “As if you don’t have a surplus of auction items. And even if you didn’t, can’t you just get Jones to sign a couple more when you’re spending all that time in his very fancy uptown apartment?” Emma narrowed her eyes, but Ruby’s expression didn’t change, that self-satisfied smile practically etched onto her face. “You know,” she continued. “I heard a rumor about that.”  
  
“Of course you did,” Emma sighed, nodding when Merida knocked on the door of her office. She had three more sticks in her right hand and a bag of pucks tucked under her left elbow, just barely holding onto them before she dumped everything on the table in the corner.

“Scarlet said he’s not signing anything else,” Merida said, leaning against the side of the table with a look that practically announced she’d come up on the losing end of that particular argument.

Emma sighed again and Ruby was still staring at her, one eyebrow arched and arms crossed lightly over yet another red dress.

“What?” Emma asked, snapping out the word quickly and that happiness she was certain would linger for the rest of time was starting to fade a bit in the face of a stubborn defenseman and overworked assistants and friends-slash-media-relations-specialists who were, apparently, going to put her on a list, but not explain what that list was.

Ruby clicked her tongue again, but she put her feet back on the ground and that seemed like a step in the right direction at least. “Alright,” she said slowly, sitting up until the back of her dress was pressed up against the chair and things, suddenly, felt a bit more formal than they had a few seconds before. Even Merida stood up straighter, tugging on a curl as her eyes darted from Emma to Ruby and then back again.

“I have good news and I have bad news,” Ruby continued.

Emma tilted her head and pursed her lips, pressing her tongue on the inside of her cheek. “Bad news first.”

“You would,” Ruby accused, rolling her eyes knowingly. “Ok, bad news first. I need you to go to LA.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Good news,” she said quickly, half shouting it before Emma could go into a detailed description of all the reasons she absolutely, positively could not go back to LA. “There’s follow-up good news that will make this almost seem worth it, I promise.”  
  
Emma stared at her appraisingly and Ruby took a deep breath. “I know the All-Star teams already,” she continued. “Or at least our guys. And I know what we’ve done in the past and what Zelena wants to do this season and they do fan meet-ups and LA’s a huge city and there are going to be a ton of our people there. She wants you to go. With us. Like a whole New York contingent.”  
  
“Our people,” Emma repeated slowly, raising her eyebrows. Ruby just rolled her eyes. “Sounds a little cultish, doesn’t it Rubes?”  
  
“Fandom, Emma. It’s just fandom.”

She exhaled loudly, running her tongue over her lips and considered her options. She didn’t want to go to LA, didn’t want to set foot back into the Staples Center if she could possibly avoid it, but she also wanted to go to All-Star weekend and if her suspicions were right, the few days spent on the west coast might not actually be all that bad.

It might actually be ok. Or good. It could be good.  
  
“You couldn’t have come up with a better way to announce that than pushing into my office and telling me I was on some sort of list?” Emma asked, glancing down when her phone lit up. She made a noise in the back of her throat when she saw David’s name – text messages from him in the middle of the afternoon were few and far between.

“Yeah, well,” Ruby answered, oblivious to the rather obnoxious sounds Emma’s phone kept making. “That’s because I’m still kind of mad at you and there are multiple lists. I was talking about several different lists at once.”  
  
“Who knew one sentence could hold so much wrath,” Emma muttered, picking up her phone to find a rather frantic string of text messages in front of her.

_You’re still sleeping on my couch, Emma Swan. I buy you Pop-Tarts even though they’re disgusting and made for children. The least you could have done was tell me what was going on with my team._

“Is he totally freaking out?” Ruby asked knowingly, leaning forward slightly to glance at the messages. “Oh, he is.”

“I have no idea what’s going on.”  
  
“Didn’t you see the e-mail, boss?” Merida asked, nodding towards the laptop that had been pushed into the corner of Emma’s desk. She needed to make more room for the merchandise inventories and another budget update for the charity game and one of those piles was a brand-new set of on-ice waivers Aurora had sent her.

She needed to get Bobby Flay to sign his goddamn insurance waiver.

She was going to kill Bobby Flay.

“Of course she didn’t,” Ruby said, answering Merida’s question when Emma got distracted by another text message from David. _Are you going to go with them? You know I think he gets a car if he wins._

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Emma muttered.

“They came out already.”  
  
“All-Stars?” That’s why David was freaking out. This league was stupid. Or whoever was leaking information was stupid. It was probably Ruby. She still didn’t quite understand where the car came into play. “Did you tell Dorothy? Is that how this happened?”  
  
Ruby shrugged, a look of not-quite-innocence on her face and Emma sighed loudly. “David’s not going to buy me Pop-Tarts now,” she said.

“I have no idea what that means.”  
  
“He’s the Metro captain, boss,” Merida said, the only person in that stupid office who, it appeared, was willing to take pity on her and explain what the hell was going on.

“Your boyfriend,” Ruby added, tapping her nail on the desk now that she had her feet back on the ground. “In case you missed that part. Since you never actually told me, just showed up at the restaurant all nonchalant like you hadn’t spent the entire season telling all of us you were _just friends_ and knew his whole family like you’d spent days together.”  
  
Merida laughed softly, Ruby spinning in her chair so quickly to glare at her that her hair actually hit across the front of her face.

“How long have you been holding that in Rubes?” Emma asked. She still hadn’t answered David.

Ruby grumbled slightly, turning back on Emma. “That was the other list, by the way. The one where you don’t tell your friends you’re dating the captain of the New York Rangers. Particularly when said friend tried to set you up with the captain of the New York Rangers as soon as you started working for the New York Rangers.”  
  
“Someone paying you by the team mention or…”  
  
“Shut up. You know Mary Margaret is beside herself. She’s through the roof on this, although she won’t actually say anything because she’s no fun at all.”  
  
“I’m well aware,” Emma said, smiling in spite of herself. Mary Margaret had tried to _casually_ ask about Emma’s plan for a plus-one to the wedding no less than a dozen times since Christmas and made sure to mention the fact that she and David were getting married at a castle whenever she saw Killian.

She saw Killian quite a bit.

“And,” Emma continued. “There was no point in actually announcing it when I’m pretty sure everybody knew already.”  
  
“Well, obviously, you two were horrible at whatever secret you were trying to keep. You know Merida saw you at the restaurant that game before Thanksgiving? The one with the breakaway?” Emma’s mouth dropped open and her assistant’s face matched her hair, red rising in her cheeks as she gaped at Ruby. “Awful at it. All longing stares and fingers brushing each other’s when you thought no one was looking. Gross.”  
  
“You literally just said you were the one who tried the set up the very first night I was here.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s still gross. And you should have told me.” Emma rolled her eyes, realizing, again, that she still hadn’t texted David back. “Anyway, you excited about tonight?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“What?” Ruby asked, genuine surprise coloring her voice. Emma put her phone down slowly, lowering her eyebrows as Ruby glanced back at Merida again.

She shrugged in response, grabbing one of the not-signed-by-Will-Scarlet pucks and tossing it nervously in her hands as if she needed a distraction. “I think it was supposed to be a surprise actually.”  
  
“How can it be a surprise if she doesn’t even know it’s happening?”  
  
“I’m sitting right here,” Emma said. Ruby didn’t care. She was still staring at Merida and Merida was still throwing the puck in the air, wincing slightly when it hit her hand.

“You really don’t know?” Ruby asked.

“Are you talking to me now?” Emma mumbled, falling into _sarcastic_ and _immature_ with an ease that almost astounded her. Ruby stuck her tongue out.

“Obviously.”  
  
“Usually it’s customary to look at the person you’re talking to.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. You have something to wear later?”  
  
“You are not making any sense at all. And where does the car come into it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“David seems to be under the impression Killian can win a car?”  
  
Merida scoffed under her breath and Ruby had sunk so low into the chair Emma was actually surprised she hadn’t done permanent damage to her spine. “That was, like, two seasons ago, at least,” Ruby mumbled. “And it wouldn’t have mattered anyway since he’s a captain and he would have picked the teams. It’s a whole different All-Star system now. Tell David he needs to catch up because his questions are just embarrassing.”

The tension that had cropped up between Emma’s shoulder blades lessoned at that – she’d have to apologize to David for that later and probably buy her own Pop-Tarts and maybe get her own apartment at some point. Definitely the last one.

She just needed a few more hours in each day.

And now she, apparently, was on some sort of list to Los Angeles that would probably require her to organize several _different_ community relation and/or fan experience events and that was fine, it _was,_ but it was also a bit exhausting and while Emma was as happy as she could remember being in quite some time – _ever_ – she could also use a few more hours per day to get everything done.

Or maybe get a chance to actually go out on that date with her boyfriend, Killian Jones, captain of the Metro All-Stars.

Because they hadn’t done that yet either.

There hadn’t been any time. She had merch to get signed and celebrities to sign up for a charity game and she and Merida still had to go to some warehouse in New Jersey later that week to make sure that the Casino Night tables hadn’t somehow managed to get destroyed in the eleven months since the last Casino Night.

She hoped he hadn’t forgotten.

He hadn’t forgotten.

There just hadn’t been time.

He did, after all, have games to play and the Rangers had been on a Canadian swing for the better part of the last week – the text messages saved in Emma’s inbox full of facts about Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa and return facts about the teams and their inability to win a Stanley Cup.

They’d wrapped up the road trip in Chicago the night before – _The Chicago River is the only river that flows backwards, Swan. Backwards! And there’s not even any threat of finding a body in it like there is in the East River._

**I hardly think the flow of the river is going to change how many bodies are in it. There could be a ton of bodies in the Chicago River. Also the Blackhawks were named after the 86th infantry division in World War I.**

_I didn’t know that._

**See, now you’ve got to come home. I’ve got all these very impressive facts to share.**

_I look forward to it._

It was another loss – in a shootout that Emma was certain had taken, at least, six years off Arthur’s life and, by extension Gwen’s life if the number of times she sighed dramatically in the corner of the restaurant were any indication – but they’d be home now and they were off for two days before the Penguins made their return to the Garden.

That would be fine too.

Emma absolutely wasn’t worried about it.

“You really don’t know what’s going on?” Ruby asked again and Emma shook her head.

“No,” she promised. “I don’t.”  
  
“It’s a surprise,” Merida mumbled. “You should probably consider leaving here kind of early, boss. Like make sure you’re home at some point before the stroke of midnight.”  
  
Ruby looked stunned, hair whipping across her face again. “Are you not leaving here before midnight now?” Emma shrugged. “That is insane. You know that’s insane right? No wonder Mary Margaret’s worried.”  
  
“I thought Mary Margaret was thrilled with my happiness,” Emma said slyly, lifting one eyebrow.

“We can talk about more than one thing, Emma!”  
  
Emma laughed loudly, momentarily forgetting the absurd amount of work she had to do and the injured defenseman she’d have to threaten again if he refused to sign his designated number of hockey pucks. Oh and Liam Neeson. She had a phone call with Liam Neeson – or least Liam Neeson’s agent’s agent – that afternoon.

Liam Neeson loved the Rangers.

He’d show up for a charity hockey game. Or he’d at least do a voiceover.

“What time is that call?” Emma asked, glancing up Merida who already had a clipboard and the schedule in her hand.

She didn’t get a chance to answer and Emma didn’t get a chance to try and pry more information out of Ruby – whether that was information about whatever Emma didn’t know or how Dorothy, who had a pretty cushy gig as a photo editor at _Sports Illustrated,_ appeared to be getting information about All-Star noms before anyone else in the entire media world – before there were footsteps in the doorway and a knock on the door.

All three of them turned at the sound and Killian almost looked surprised, eyes widening for a moment when he was faced with the full force of their collective curiosity, but he smiled half a second later, gaze finding its way to Emma almost immediately.

“Gross,” Ruby muttered, shaking her head when she noticed Emma’s immediate smile. She sighed loudly, pushing out of her chair and turning towards Killian who had the good sense to almost look intimidated by her.

“Hi, Ruby,” he said evenly, leaning against the open doorframe.

“You know your PK sucks, still.”  
  
“That’s not my fault. Tell Scarlet to fix his leg.”  
  
“Tell Scarlet to sign a few more hockey pucks so your girlfriend isn’t working until midnight every day.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Ignore her,” Emma said. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of me because I’m on some sort of list and she’s mad at me.”  
  
“Multiple lists, Emma,” Ruby pointed out, glancing over her shoulder to stare at her with eyebrows raised and mouth set in a very particular straight line. “Anyway,” she continued, pushing a finger into the front of Killian’s button-up. He was wearing a button-up. And a tie. Emma hadn’t noticed that before. “This is half your fault too, Jones. You’re the one keeping secrets and not telling your girlfriend things.”  
  
His face shifted suddenly and it was almost jarring, the way his eyes narrowed and his shoulders rolled back. He wasn’t leaning against the doorframe anymore, any sense of _casual_ lost as soon as the accusation was out of Ruby’s mouth.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, but his voice was tight and Emma could hear the nerves there.

She stood up, walking around the desk and ignoring the vibrations of her phone. David’s break must have almost been over. “Leave him alone Ruby,” Emma said, but she didn’t take another step forward, sinking onto the front of her desk instead and crossing her feet at the ankles. “Although the PK really does suck.”  
  
“You’re a beacon of support, Swan,” he laughed. “And tell the new guy. I’m surprised Arthur hasn’t sent him back down and demanded someone else yet. Or tried to kill him. You see he smashed another whiteboard last night?”  
  
“I think he’s going to kill Jefferson at this point. He should have saved that last shootout attempt.”  
  
Killian hummed in agreement.”He’s going to start Thomas on Saturday.”  
  
“What?” Emma, Ruby and Merida asked the question in tandem and Killian let out a low whistle at it. “We didn’t practice that or anything,” Emma said, working a quiet laugh out of him. He was still standing up straight.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Killian said, finally taking a step into the office. Ruby already had her phone out. He shook his head, pulling her phone out of her hands without a word, ignoring her loud cry when she started shouted about _doing her job_. “Nothing until you hear it from Arthur, Lucas. Shouldn’t you be at the presser soon anyway?”

Ruby blinked once, scrunching her nose in frustration when she realized Killian was right. “You’re an ass,” she answered, grabbing her phone back with a completely unnecessary amount of force. “Come on Mer, things are going to get disgustingly adorable in here in a couple of minutes. And crowd control at this thing is going to be absurd if Jones isn’t actually lying to my face.”  
  
“Would I do that?”  
  
“Yes,” Ruby said immediately, stalking towards the door with Merida close on her heels.

“What…” Emma started, but Merida was a mind reader and she barely had the even finished _thinking_ the question before she had an answer.

“Not until 4:30. You’ve got some time.”

Emma nodded, running her hand over her face as the footsteps retreated and then a new set began, moving towards her until his knees brushed up against hers. She only opened her eyes when she felt his hands land on her shoulders, thumb tracing out a small semicircle just above the collar of her dress.

“The PK isn’t your fault,” Emma mumbled, head falling forward until it landed on Killian’s chest and she felt him laugh softly underneath her. “Although maybe we should look into some anger therapy for Arthur or something.”  
  
“What are the steps? He denied the new guy was bad because he didn’t want to actually deal with it and now we’ve moved on to anger.”  
  
“This stage is lasting a very long time.”  
  
“Ariel told me Scarlet started walking on the treadmill without actually complaining the other day, so we might be moving forward pretty quickly.”  
  
Emma smiled, lifting her head up to find him staring at her with lifted eyebrows and concern in his gaze. “What?” she asked.

“Midnight, Swan? Really?”  
  
“It hasn’t been every night. Just like...the last week or so.”  
  
“So when you told me you’d been home for hours last night and everything was fine, it was the opposite of both those things.”  
  
She quirked an eyebrow, but he didn’t back down – mouth set and eyes wide and it took her eight seconds to realize what was going on. He was worried.  
He was worried about her.

In some strange world where things were normal and people got what they wanted on some sort of consistent basis Emma probably would have expected the worry to come with the _boyfriend_ title, but that wasn’t this world and she couldn’t really remember if she’d ever actually been in a relationship where the boyfriend title had been so active.

Or quite as obvious.

They’d been absolutely horrible at under the radar.

“Careful, Cap,” Emma cautioned, tapping the front of her fingernail against his tie clip. “That sounds almost accusatory.”  
  
“It’s not. Honestly. Just...when’s the last time you’ve actually had a full night’s sleep?”

Emma grumbled, muttering words that weren’t actually words and she didn’t really have an answer. “I’m fine,” she said.

“That’s not what Mary Margaret said.”  
  
“How?”

He blinked once at the question before answering, pulling her hands away from the tie clip – he was wearing a _tie clip_ – and sank down on the edge of the desk next to her. “She got my number from Ariel. David, however, got it from Mary Margaret.”  
  
“You’re texting David, too? Jeez, he could have just asked you about the car.”  
  
“He already did. I told him that hadn’t happened in three seasons at least.”  
  
“Did I mention that was pretty awesome, by the way?” Emma asked, glancing to her left to find him staring at her, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “All-Star captaincy and All-Star’ness in general. Because it is.”  
  
Killian shrugged and Emma tried not to roll her eyes at his determination to brush off the compliment. “It’s not a Cup, but it is pretty cool. El said they might try and get over for the weekend. It’s a quick flight.”  
  
“Elsa knew before me too? Jeez.”  
  
“El cheated because Liam found out through the league and that doesn’t count. It’s not even supposed to be out there yet, but it’s already on ESPN. That’s where I came from. Presser about it. And the road trip, but no one actually asked me about that.”  
  
“Ruby is some kind of media relations savant. God, I don’t know about anything that happens outside of my community relations bubble.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing, Swan.”  
  
“It’s a frustrating and vaguely exhausting thing.”  
  
“What’s the phone call about?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
He laughed and she hadn’t even noticed his fingers finding their way into hers. “You asked Merida about a phone call at 4:30. Is that for Casino Night, the game or whatever All-Star nonsense I’m sure Lucas planned for you.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“Ruby also informed me I was ‘on the list’ as soon as she saw the noms. Apparently it’s a very exclusive LA list. Rol’s going to be thrilled. He’ll probably be able to get a whole new wardrobe out it.”  
  
“Robin too?” Emma asked, smile widening almost immediately and maybe going back to Los Angeles wouldn’t actually be the worst thing in the entire world. “To answer your question I haven’t even really thought about All-Star events. I’m sure Zelena will want to have a meeting about that too. The phone call is with Liam Neeson. Or his agent. Whatever.”  
  
“For the charity game?” Emma nodded, trying to turn her yawn into a deep breath and failing miserably. “That’s incredible, Swan.”  
  
“You got named captain of the Metro today. Let’s try and keep incredible in perspective here.”

“Please, that’s nothing compared to what you’re doing. And I’m on some sort of point drought. You know they featured that before the game yesterday? Detailed my so-called troubles on the ice since Christmas.”  
  
“It’s been two weeks.”  
  
“There was a graphic, Swan.”  
  
“How do you even know that?”  
  
“Scarlet thought it was hysterical. He texted several different looks at the graphic as well as his thorough analysis of my game and what I was doing wrong.”  
  
“Ass,” Emma muttered, drawing a laugh out of Killian and she bit her lip when he kissed her cheek lightly. “He’s got way too much time on his hands.”  
  
“And you, love, appear to not have enough,” Killian countered, leaning back slightly to glance at the several stacks of paper sitting on her desk. “How come they’re up here and not scattered in some sort of organized fashion on the floor?”  
  
Emma gave herself a moment to appreciate the question – the _knowing_ in his voice doing something to several different internal organs and possibly every single one of her nerve endings – and he was smiling at her when she met his gaze.

“It’s just a lot of stuff,” she said. “It’s ok though. I mean Reese’s couch is almost starting to get comfortable and Mer’s got every single hour of probably the next year scheduled, so I know where I have to be at any given point in any day. The game will be worth it though.”  
  
“Of course it will.”

Emma tilted her head at the certainty in his voice, the ease with which he just _agreed_ with her, as if the idea of the game being anything but worth it was unfathomable.

She’d always had Mary Margaret and David, had their encouragements and their support, even from the other side of the country, but there’d never really been anything like this.

That would take some getting used to.

“I can’t believe you’re texting Reese’s and David about my well-being,” Emma mumbled.

“I had a feeling.”  
  
“Of course you did. Are you done today? Presser and just free as a bird?”  
  
Killian laughed and Emma scrunched her nose, making a face. “No,” he said, smile seemingly carved there. “I’ve got film when you’ve got Liam Neeson.”  
  
“Liam Neeson’s agent.”  
  
“Even so.”  
  
“You’ve got some time off though, right? I mean Arthur’s got to give you guys at least a few hours to recoup, doesn’t he?”  
  
“Eh, if there weren’t Player’s Association rules, he’d probably have us out on the ice right now. The PK is pretty horrible. I think we’ve fallen into the bottom of the league.”  
  
“It’ll get better once Scarlet is back and you guys string a couple of wins together.”  
  
“Is that positivity I hear, Swan?”  
  
“If you get to be certain that my game will be fine, then I can be certain that you guys can hold onto the Wild Card spot.”

“Standings watcher,” he accused, but Emma could still feel his smile when his lips found hers and they probably should have led off with the kissing. Ruby would have had a meltdown.

His hand found its way into her hair, fingers carding through the strands and around the back of her head until he’d pulled her towards him and Emma’s hands gripped the front of his button-up. And she hadn’t quite realized she’d missed him _that_ much until she took a deep breath and Killian moved with her, tongue tracing against her bottom lip.

“See,” she said when they both remembered they needed oxygen to breathe. “I’m totally not even remotely tired.”  
  
“That so?”

“Was that not enough proof?”  
  
“Well, I’m just trying to be certain, Swan.”  
  
“Of?”

“This almost sort of plan I might have for later.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hung open and that oxygen she’d needed so desperately just a few moments before rushed out of both her lungs. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Ruby’s got a very large mouth and almost ruined the entire thing, but she wasn’t entirely wrong either.”  
  
“That thing I didn’t know about?”

Killian clicked his tongue and his eyebrows did something _absurd_ , eyes flashing up at Emma when he turned towards her. “I'm sorry for being so late in planning, but, if you’ve got some free time later tonight, I might have actually planned an evening.”  
  
“An evening?” Emma repeated skeptically. Killian nodded seriously and she let out a sound that was usually classified as a giggle. She’d never giggled in her life.

“I don’t want to limit our time, Swan, but at least to start. I’m surprised Mary Margaret didn’t let you know.”  
  
“How many people have you told?”

“Just two.”  
  
Ruby and Mary Margaret – Emma’s two best friends and the only people, with maybe the exception of David, in the entire, stupid city who would know exactly what she’d want on some sort of perfect date with the captain of the New York Rangers.

She was dangerously close to giggling again.

“Reese’s did ask when I thought I’d be getting back home,” Emma muttered, tracing back through an early-morning conversation she’d only been half awake for. “But then how did Mer know? She was talking about it too.”  
  
“Ruby probably,” Killian reasoned. “I’ve got no control over who she talks to and she talks to everybody.”  
  
“It’s the media relations in her. She finds out breaking news and she’s obligated to report it or something.”

Killian laughed again, but there was a bit of nervous energy mixed in as well. Emma appreciated that too – almost as much as the worrying and the support and how absurdly blue his eyes were.

“Eight?” he asked, standing up and his hands made their way back to her shoulders.

Emma nodded slowly, trying to remember that schedule Merida had taken with her to Arthur’s press conference. “Yeah, yeah, I can do eight.”

His smile wasn’t even fair.

Killian kissed her quickly, lips barely brushing over his and Emma tried not to chase after when he pulled away. He was still smiling.

“I’ll pick you up,” he said, squeezing her shoulders before turning back towards her office door.

* * *

“I already know you know Reese’s, you don’t have to pretend like you don’t,” Emma said, falling back onto the bed in the far corner of the loft.

Mary Margaret glanced at her over her shoulder, mouth set into something that practically screamed disappointed. Emma was trying to get her to spoil the surprise. It wasn’t really working.

An hour after she’d walked back into the apartment and announced to both Mary Margaret and David that she needed to find something to wear, Emma was still no closer to finding something to wear or, more importantly, knowing what the plan was.

Mary Margaret totally knew the plan.

And she wouldn’t crack.

“You look like you’re about to discipline me for not wanting to come in from recess,” Emma laughed, propping herself up on her elbows.

“It’s January, recess is inside,” Mary Margaret said reasonably, muttering the words into the clothes in front of her.

“That was funny, Reese’s!”  
  
“It’s been known to happen from time to time. Now come on, sit up straight, you’re going to mess up your hair.”  
  
“My ponytail? You’re honestly worried about me messing up a ponytail? And didn’t you decree it had to go low because I absolutely, positively had to wear a hat? You know, Reese’s, that kind of seems like a clue almost.”  
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say anything,” she argued, groaning in a very un-Mary Margaret type of way when she looked back at the closet. “How do we not own a single sweatshirt that isn’t bright blue?”  
  
It wasn’t an enormous loft, but there was still a fair amount of closet space and it might have been a cavern by New York standards, enough, at least, that Mary Margaret had given Emma a bit of that space as well.

She wouldn’t take anything for it – claimed it felt a bit like college and Emma _didn’t need to pay rent_ – but Emma started pressing a check in David’s hand whenever she could, determined to at least feel like she was pulling her own weight.

She should probably find her own apartment.

“Do I need a sweatshirt?” Emma asked. “Can’t I just wear a coat?”

“It’s cold out,” David said, the other side of the mattress dipping just a bit when he collapsed back next to Emma.

“David,” Mary Margaret sighed, nearly falling forward into the closet.

“What? That’s not a clue. That’s just a fact. A weather fact. You’re both welcome for this free and unsolicited weather update.”

Emma flipped on her side, staring pointedly at David who, suddenly, seemed much more interested with the state of the ceiling than meeting her gaze. “You know too,” she accused, pressing her finger into the curve of his ribs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Liar liar pants on fire.”  
  
“My pants are in perfect condition.”  
  
Mary Margaret sighed again – louder than it had been before – and practically chucked a piece of clothing at Emma. “You actually own a sweater, you know,” she said and the bed probably hadn’t been made for three people when it was being designed for the Ikea winter catalogue. The frame creaked in protest and Emma held the sweater up to examine it – not quite as bright blue as the team-branded sweatshirts in the shared closet. It was...softer.

“It’s a good date sweater,” Mary Margaret added and Emma barely saw David’s shoulders shift as he settled into _overprotective mode_ almost immediately.

“It’s not bad,” Emma muttered, still holding the thing in front of her like it would suddenly become a different color if she stared at it long enough. It didn’t. It was still blue.

“You’ll need the sweater,” David said.

“You totally know. Did Killian tell you or did you find out second-hand from Reese’s?”  
  
“Excuse me, Emma,” he huffed, sitting up and pinching her arm through the sleeve of the team-branded t-shirt she still had on. “I am _friends_ with people on this team of yours. We talk. We text. We share our opinions on long-overdue dates.”  
  
“A rather pointed opinion.”  
  
“A true one.”  
  
Emma’s stomach did something ridiculous at that – never particularly pleased when David went into _overprotective mode,_ but he never really liked Neal and he’d never really met Walsh and there was something in the way he kept smiling at her, like he knew this might have been the best thing she could remember happening to her in years.

She didn’t need David’s approval – would certainly never ask for it – but the idea of him going out of his way to text the captain of the New York Rangers, her _boyfriend,_ about a date was almost too much to handle.

“Alright, alright,” she said, doing her best to keep the emotion out of her voice. “Get out of here so I can get changed and then you can stage whatever overprotective speech I’m sure you’ve already got written.”  
  
“I have no such thing.”  
  
“Liar liar pants on fire,” Mary Margaret muttered before kissing his cheek and tugging him off the side of the bed.

The sweater looked good. The jeans looked good. Even the boots she pulled on, a bit tighter than usual because everyone kept talking about how cold it was and Emma felt like she should maybe wear two pairs of socks, looked good.

Everything looked good – except the hat.

Because Mary Margaret seemed particularly adamant that her ears would freeze if Emma didn’t wear a hat, but the only hat Emma seemed to own was a team-branded monstrosity that Ruby had given her for Christmas as a joke.

It had a pom pom on the top. And it was blue. Very blue.

“I can’t wear this,” Emma announced, stepping back into the living room to find Mary Margaret and David wrapped up on the couch, plates of takeout perched precariously on their knees.

“You look great,” Mary Margaret said, elbowing David in the side when he noticed the hat on Emma’s head.

“I’m not wearing this hat. I’m not. This is absurd. He knows I work for the team, I don’t need to announce it with a ridiculous hat.”  
  
“It’s cute!’  
  
“It’s awful.”  
  
Mary Margaret opened her mouth – likely to heap another compliment on Emma and her team-branded merchandise – but there was a knock on the door and they should really do something about people’s tendency to prop open the front door of the building. Anyone could just walk upstairs.

Killian Jones could just walk upstairs and knock on the door and take Emma Swan out on a date.

Jeez.

“You need the hat, Em,” David said. “It’s cold.  
  
Emma groaned loudly and the next knock on the door sounded just a bit more cautious. He probably heard her. “Answer the door,” Mary Margaret said. She sounded like a teacher again and Emma bit her lower lip tightly, trying to remember how to breathe as she took a few steps forward.

Her shoulders heaved slightly when she swung the door open and then her mouth fell open too and, well, that wasn’t really fair.

He wasn’t wearing a hat.

He was, however, staring at her, eyes tracing over her face and up towards _her_ hat and that stupid red and blue pom pom at the top of her head, smile inching across his face in slow motion. Emma absolutely forgot how to breathe.

“Hey,” she said, a bit more breathless than she wanted it to be.

Killian’s smile widened and he took a step towards her, fingers brushing across the back of her wrist. And that stupid smile probably could have lit up the entire island of Manhattan and several of the outlying boroughs when his fingers hit the knotted up laces Emma hadn’t actually taken off her wrist since Christmas.

“You look incredible, Swan,” he said softly. Emma was dimly aware of whatever sound Mary Margaret was making from the couch and she heard two plates hit the coffee table when both of them turned around to take in the scene happening in their doorway.

Emma shook her head, gaze falling towards his shoes and the jeans he absolutely got custom-made because there was no way he just _bought_ those, not when they fit so well and how had she never quite noticed the very stereotypical hockey thighs he had? Jeez. Again.

“You, uh,” she stuttered, tugging nervously on the ends of her hat until the fabric scraped over her ears.

“I know,” Killian said, a picture of confidence that made Emma roll her eyes. It made her smile too. That shouldn’t have surprised her. “Feeling particularly team-spirited, are we?”

“I don’t have another hat and I was reliably informed I needed a hat.”  
  
Killian’s smile wavered for half a second, eyes going wide when his head snapped towards the couch and Mary Margaret held up her hands quickly. “I said absolutely nothing. David was the one giving out free weather reports.”  
  
He shook his head again, but the smile was back where it should have been and Emma only realized he was holding something in his hand.

A goddamn rose.

He was holding a rose and the smile was nervous again and his eyes were just _too_ blue. There was too much blue in this situation and Emma’s mouth was dry, heart hammering against her chest as if to announce it was there and functioning.

Like he’d promised.

“Sap,” Emma mumbled, mostly so she wouldn’t do something absurd like cry. Mary Margaret probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it and, judging by the soft sniffle that had just come from the direction of the couch, she was already having a hard time keeping it together.

Killian shrugged. “There are rules for first dates, Swan.”  
  
“And plans I’ve heard.”  
  
“Absolutely. Some we’ll be late for if we keep letting Mary Margaret dissolve into some sort of emotion in your living room.”  
  
“Hey,” Mary Margaret mumbled, “I got David to get off his overprotective speech plan.”  
  
“You texted me,” Killian laughed, leaning around the doorframe to stare at David. His hand fell on Emma’s waist seemingly out of instinct and she could feel Mary Margaret’s over-excited smile at the movement.

“What did you say about first date rules?” David asked. “Add that one to the list. And I never got to badger any of Emma’s other boyfriends, this is like my right or something.”  
  
“Can we go, please?” Emma pressed, hand falling on the front of Killian’s leather jacket. “Like right now?”  
  
Killian laughed, nodding seriously and Mary Margaret practically exploded with motherly excitement when he kissed the top of Emma’s head. “Sure, Swan. The guy downstairs is probably mad at us already for taking this long.”  
  
“You brought another guy on our date?”  
  
“If you mean I brought another guy with us who’ll be driving the car farther uptown, then, yeah, I brought another guy on our date.”  
  
Mary Margaret made another noise and Emma rolled her eyes, tugging the rose out of Killian’s still outstretched hand. “Over the top,” she muttered, handing the flower to Mary Margaret without a word.

“I told you, I’m very good at planning.”  
  
“Alright, Jones,” she said, a mixture of no less than eighteen different emotions flooding through her entire body when his eyes met hers. “Let’s date.”

Emma had been in cabs before – had made out with Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers in the backseat of cabs several times in the last few months – but there was something about a town car with a driver and they were going farther uptown and his hand kept trailing up her thigh, thumb tracing over the curve of her knee in a way that seemed to send sparks through each and every one of her veins.

“How far are we going?” Emma asked after fifteen minutes spent trying to make sure her pulse didn’t actually beat out of her body.

He’d noticed – of course he’d noticed, but he hadn’t actually said anything, just kept shooting her smiles and glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes as the numbers on the street signs kept getting higher.

“A rink,” Killian answered, nodding towards the window when the car came to a stop in the middle of Central Park.

They were in the middle of Central Park and Emma hadn’t even noticed and that was either a commentary on her need to get out more or how distracting it was to have Killian’s hand on her thigh. It was probably a bit of both.

“Oh my God, you’re not going to try and teach me how to play hockey are you?” Emma asked, not quite able to stop herself from laughing when the driver of this very expensive town car actually opened the door for her. “Because that’s a little too much even for a very over the top first date plan.”  
  
“There was a compliment in there somewhere, Swan, I’m sure of it.” His fingers found hers, squeezing slightly when he told the driver of the very expensive town car he’d rented, or maybe just had, that he didn’t have to stick around. They were, apparently, fine on their own for the rest of the night.

Emma glanced towards the rink and it was a week after New Year’s so the shine of _Christmas in New York_ had worn off at this point, but there should have, at least, been a few tourists on the ice, rented skates on their feet and slow-moving bodies trying to make sure they didn’t face plant onto the ice.

There weren’t.

There wasn’t anyone there.

The lights were on and there was music playing softly in the background and if it started to snow it probably would have looked a bit like a postcard.

“I'm not going to teach you how to play hockey,” Killian said, taking a step forward and moving his head towards the rink when Emma didn’t immediately follow. “That seems kind of redundant doesn’t it? You already know how hockey works.”  
  
“That’s true,” Emma agreed. She was still thrown off by the lack of people. And if she stopped to think about it, it probably would have been because in the last six months, she and Killian hadn’t actually spent much time alone. Or, rather, hadn’t spent much time alone when they weren’t also worried about being found or seen or just a few doors down the hall from a pair of very rambunctious four-year-olds.

There were skates propped up against the door to the rink – no sticks or even a puck anywhere in sight. Emma narrowed her eyes at the two pairs, blades obviously dull from overuse and she felt her mouth fall open slightly when she realized what they were.

Figure skates.

“Mary Margaret was very adamant that you’d never been ice skating in your entire life,” Killian said, somewhere close to whispering. “And Ruby said you’d been on the ice enough in the Staples Center and the idea of some kind of slap shot drill was the opposite of romantic. So, here we are. Ice skating in Central Park.”  
  
Her heart was in her throat or maybe her stomach or possibly Killian’s hands – which would have been impressive considering his left hand was still wrapped up in hers – and Emma just nodded slowly, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to.

“That’s why she wanted me to wear a sweater,” Emma mumbled, finally able to find her voice after what felt like an inexcusably long time.

“What?”  
  
“Reese’s kept saying I needed to wear a sweater. This is apparently the only one I have. I’m also swimming in team-branded sweatshirts, I guess. I was only kind of half listening.”  
  
“She didn’t say anything though?”  
  
Emma shook her head, the ends of her low ponytail hitting the front of her shoulder. “No, no, Reese’s wouldn’t do that. Ruby, yes, but not Reese’s. She’s been operation Emma Swan happiness for the better part of the last decade.”  
  
He didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity and it was so quiet uptown – a far cry from 34th Street and Midtown and the one block outside the Garden that Emma spent most of her days on. “Are you?” Killian whispered, so quiet she barely heard him.

“Am I what?”  
  
“Happy?”

She turned at the sound of his voice, that question within the question that Emma could hear every time they had one of these conversations, and she nodded again. He squeezed her hand, tighter than he had before, and her thumb traced over raised skin and scar tissue and she might have actually gasped when he kissed her.

Her back hit up against the side of the low boards around the rink, the top of them pressing into her spine and Emma did her best not to recoil against it, all too aware of where her hips would land if she did. But then Killian’s tongue found her bottom lip and they were all quick breaths and tightly gripping hands and, God, teeth and Emma’s hips moved of their own volition, drawing a groan out of him that she’d probably think about for the rest of her life.

“I am,” she said when they pulled away from each other, foreheads touching and the ponytail was a bit of a lost cause now. The hat was tilted too, nearly falling off her head and Emma grumbled slightly when Killian moved his hands off her hips to pull the edges down, nearly dragging the fabric over her eyes.

“That makes two of us,” he added, kissing her again before bending down to pick up both pairs of skates. “You ready, love?”  
  
Emma nodded again – something in the back of her mind sounding at the phrasing of _that_ particular question – and she was glad she’d worn thicker socks.

He wasn’t very good at this, a fact Emma made sure to point out as frequently as she possibly could, particularly when he kept getting the front of his skate stuck in the ice.

“They’re different kinds of skates,” she said for what was, at least, the fourth time and the second time since he’d fallen over, grumbling when his knees crashed into the ice, blades not moving the way he wanted them to.

Killian made a face, eyes flashing her direction where she was standing in the center of the rink. “I am aware that they’re different types of skates, Swan, thank you very much.”  
  
She let out a low whistle, skating towards him with an ease that even surprised her a little bit and Emma had never been ice skating before, but it appeared she was a bit of a natural. She didn’t even need the wall to stop, pushing the front of her skates into the ice and dropping her hands on his obviously frustrated shoulders.

“You didn’t actually hurt your knee, did you?” Emma asked, tugging on the front of his zipper. “I’ve got enough going on without Arthur trying to kill me.”  
  
“It’d probably be Ariel, actually. Or maybe Victor. Arthur wouldn’t get involved from the get-go. He’s got the new guy to worry about.”  
  
“You ever going to call him by his name? He’s not a bad guy.”  
  
“He just sucks on the PK.”  
  
“People like him. In the realm of community relations, he’s a dream. The internet seems to appreciate his face very much. I think there’s a whole sub-Reddit dedicated to him.”  
  
Killian grumbled again and Emma had mostly done it for the reaction, smiling at him when her fingers found the back of his hair. “Terrible on the PK,” he repeated. “And my knees are fine, Swan. I’m just not used to not being able to push off on the front of my skates.”  
  
“It’s because you’re trying to show off,” she pointed out, appreciating the way his eyes got a bit wider at the accusation. “You don’t have to, you know. I’m already impressed. I’d go so far as to say consistently impressed.”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow. “That so?”  
  
“Well you did shut down a Central Park ice rink for a first date, so, yeah, I am pretty impressed.”  
  
“It wasn’t nearly as hard as you think it was.”  
  
“How’d you do it? Honestly? And how long have you been planning this?”  
  
“I can’t tell you that, Swan. That’d give away all my secrets, spoil all this romance I’ve created.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, scrunching her nose and she knew she’d won before even saying a single word. “I’m serious, how’d you do it? Why?”  
  
She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d thought it – had considered the reasoning and the question while they sat in the back seat of the town car and while they laced up their skates and as soon as he’d fallen, breath catching in her throat slightly.

She’d thought it since August and the set-up and even after declarations in a childhood bedroom, it wasn’t always entirely easy to understand _why_. Someday she’d stop asking questions.

“Did you just ask me why?” Killian asked incredulously, disbelief in his gaze. Emma shrugged. “I love you,” he said simply and she was convinced she’d never get used to that, the ease with which he said it and the confidence in his voice and the disbelief was replaced with something completely different.

It was determination.

“And Mary Margaret was very certain this was a good plan,” Killian added. “She’s pretty dead-set on making sure you get what you want.”  
  
“I am,” Emma said immediately, answering coming quicker than she expected.

“Yeah?”  
  
“I love you,” she answered, not entirely certain if she was answering the right question. It didn’t seem to matter – if the look on Killian’s face was any indication. “And I’m glad your knees are ok, three points out of the top five.”  
  
“You know I think you might be stalking me a bit, Swan.”  
  
“Nuh uh, relating to the community through your on-ice success.”

“Semantics.”  
  
She giggled – _again_ – something rushing through her that felt a bit like _joy_ and that was absurd, but he’d somehow shut down an entire ice rink and gotten advice from her friends and listened to David’s messages and it felt a bit like a postcard too, all picture-perfect and happy and _home._

“You know,” Killian said slowly, inching away from the wall and pushing Emma back into the middle of the rink. “This is the first place I ever held a stick. Liam snuck us uptown and El and Banana rented ice skates and we got sticks on the rink somehow, which was totally against the rules, but we came up here and practiced passing and handling and, well, it all started up here.”  
  
Emma nearly tripped over her skates, holding on to the front of Killian’s jacket just a bit tighter than necessary and it didn’t just feel like home – it was.

Because he kept doing that, bringing her places and sharing things and opening up his entire world, letting her into every corner and every story, smiling at her whenever she forgot to breathe.

And, for the first time in as long as Emma could remember, she didn’t worry about why or when it would end or how badly it would hurt when it all got torn away from her. Instead she kissed Killian Jones, captain of the goddamn New York Rangers.

That was easier.

“I’ll race you,” she said, muttering the words against his lips when he didn’t quite pull away from her.

“Is that a challenge, Swan?”  
  
“Oh, absolutely, and I’m pretty confident I’m going to absolutely destroy you because you keep forgetting these are different kinds of skates.”  
  
“Out of the two of us, who is the captain of the Metro All-Stars?” Killian countered, skating backwards like he was trying to prove his point. “I think I know how to skate.”  
  
“Not in figure skates.”

She dug the toe of her skate into the ice, widening her eyes and the smirk was back on his face. “What happens if I win?”  
  
“What do you get when you win the breakaway challenge? Donuts, right?”  
  
“I was thinking something a little more personal than just donuts.”  
  
“Lame.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re a bit nervous you’re going to lose.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, pulse sounding in her ears. Competitive ass. She wasn’t sure if she was talking about him or her. “You are far too cocky for your own good. Shut up,” she added, when his eyebrows practically jumped up his forehead. “Ok, you win, I’ll come home with you.”  
  
“Were you not going to do that already?”  
  
“You want to hear the terms or not?”  
  
Killian nodded solemnly. “Go on, Swan.”  
  
“If you win, I’ll come home with you and you can follow that train of thought from two seconds ago.”  
  
“And if you win?”  
  
“I want hot chocolate. Every day. Delivered to my office for...the next two weeks. And lunch. As a group. Because I keep forgetting to eat.”  
  
“You keep forgetting to eat?” Killian repeated, concern clouding his voice almost immediately. “How is that even possible?”  
  
“Hey,” Emma said sharply, but her pulse hadn’t slowed down yet. “None of that. There’s no compassion in competition. You agree to the terms, Cap?”  
  
Killian’s eyes narrowed, lips twisted in amusement, but he nodded. “Yeah, although you should really eat regularly. Make sure you have Merida put that on the schedule I know you’ve given her.”  
  
“Killian! Competing!”  
  
“Fine, fine,” he muttered, stopping next to her on slightly shaky skates. “Ready?” Emma nodded. “Go.”

They stayed together for the first few steps, skates moving easily over ice, but he tried to push off again and Emma saw him go down out of the corner of her eye like she was seeing it in slow motion. She hit the far end of the boards quickly, groaning lightly when they pressed against her stomach and she hung over the wood for half a moment before turning back to find Killian flat on his back in the middle of the rink.

She couldn’t stop the smile when she saw his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, one leg pulled up. “Are you alright?” she asked, doing her best to make sure she didn’t get ice on him when she stopped next to him.

“Fantastic,” he muttered.

“You can’t push off like that.”  
  
“So I’ve learned.”  
  
“Why didn’t you bring your own skates?”  
  
“I was going for ambience. Felt like it was wrong to bring my own skates.”  
  
“That’s disgustingly adorable.”  
  
He scoffed, pulling his arm off his eyes and staring up at Emma. He still hadn’t gotten off the ice. “And it’s led to a very broken body.”  
  
“Poor All-Star.”  
  
“Don’t rub it in, Swan.”  
  
“You’re the one who brought up being captain of the Metro.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Killian sighed, groaning slightly when he pushed up and there was an almost ridiculous amount of ice on the back of his jacket. “When do the hot chocolate deliveries commence then?”  
  
Emma considered the answer for a moment and it was more difficult to crouch on skates than she expected, nearly joining Killian on the ice when her skate got caught underneath her. His fingers wrapped around her forearm quickly, keeping her upright and her pulse was just doing ridiculous things at this point. “Tonight?” she ventured.

“Yeah?”  
  
She nodded. “Well, it almost seems rude to leave a broken-down hockey star on his own after going through such a trying ordeal.”  
  
“See, that’s rubbing it in, Swan,” Killian laughed, tugging her forward until her body hit his and he was still smiling when he kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to hockey and dates and not-so-vaguely sarcastic Will Scarlet. You guys are very worried about the angst, and I'm me, so I get it, but there's still some fluff on the horizon and just remember, this is a very long story and, again, I'm me, so we live in a world of happy endings here. 
> 
> As always, I'm so thankful for every click, comment (which I'll respond to eventually when I have two seconds of not working) and kudos and @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	25. Chapter 25

He heard the heels before he saw her, the sound somehow finding its way to Killian’s ears through the jam-packed locker room. He resisted the urge to sigh.

Phillip the Rookie sighed anyway – and Killian must have supersonic hearing because he could hear _that_ too and Phillip the Rookie’s locker was four lockers away from his, but Regina had been trying to get him to sign with her for the better part of the last three weeks, so he could understand the sigh.

The heels were accompanied by the squeak of a pair of sneakers, no doubt tied tightly onto the feet of a very excited six-year-old, and Killian turned in just enough time to catch Roland when he leapt at him. And Robin sighed at _that,_ eyebrows pulled low and face twisted into disgruntled acceptance when his son just shouted “Hi!" at him while draped over Killian’s shoulder.

“Ah, well, at least I got that,” Robin mumbled, sinking onto the edge of the bench to relace his skates. Regina just crossed her arms over her chest, perfectly-fitted blazer not fitting quite as perfectly when she bent her elbows and started tapping out an impatient rhythm on her left forearm.

Phillip the Rookie sighed again.

“If you’ve come in here to torment the kid again, Gina, don’t try it,” Killian warned, shifting slightly so he didn’t actually drop Roland on the ground. Arthur probably wouldn’t have appreciated that.

It was another Pittsburgh night and everyone was a bit on edge – back into the second Wild Card spot after the Devils had lost the night before and the entire Metro was a mess, teams so jumbled up in the standings that things seemed to change every time Killian refreshed his phone.

They needed to win tonight and they needed to stop sucking so much on the goddamn PK and he was only three points away from cracking the top-five. That probably wouldn’t happen that night. He hadn’t scored in four games.

Not like he was counting – just getting obnoxious text message updates about it from Scarlet who found the whole thing hysterical.

“Hi, Hook,” Roland said, voice muffled by the jersey his face was pressed against as he knocked his fist against Killian’s shoulder blade.

“Hey, mate,” he muttered. He glanced at Robin who did his best to shrug without being noticed by Regina and it absolutely didn’t work because Killian was half convinced Regina had several different pairs of eyes in her head. “God, you weigh a ton.”  
  
Roland laughed loudly and Killian was smiling before he remembered he was supposed to be focused on a game and not getting into another fight with Soyer. Regina lifted one eyebrow and she still hadn’t uncrossed her arms, sitting down next to Robin until her back was resting against his.

It was a bargaining tactic – Killian had seen it all last season when she’d been renegotiating Robin’s contract. Regina had perfected the fine art of staring at another human being until they were so uncomfortable that they broke out into some sort of cold sweat and agreed to whatever terms she was demanding.

And she hadn’t blinked once she started staring at Killian.

“What do you want Gina?” Killian asked, doing his best to actually snap when there was still a kid hanging over his back. “You better hope Arthur doesn’t see you in here.”  
  
“How did you even get in here?” Robin added. He glanced over his shoulder and Regina didn’t move, just kept staring at Killian with her arms crossed. Robin let out a low whistle and pushed off the bench to fish his game jersey out of his locker, making a face as he tugged it over his pads. “God,” he laughed, but there was a nervous edge to the sound. “What did you do, Cap? Threaten Soyer before the game or something?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “I haven’t done anything. And Gina probably just stared at the security guards outside until they collapsed into a heap of fear and let her walk over them. They probably thanked her at the end of it.”  
  
Roland laughed again, body shaking just a bit and Killian wasn’t sure why they kept doing this – it always ended with a foot in his ribs.

“I did no such thing,” Regina said, practically hissing out the words. She definitely practiced that, there was no way someone in a pant suit could possibly be that intimidating without hours of practice. “And if you don’t put my kid down I’m going to tell A that you’re overexerting yourself and you’ll get a third appointment a week.”  
  
Killian sighed again, hands moving around Roland’s waist as he muttered _hold on_ and he put him back on the ground. “I have no idea why you’re in here, Gina,” he said. “We’re two hours out of puck drop.”  
  
“I needed to talk to you, obviously.”  
  
“You’ve just been staring at me.” Regina’s lips, somehow, got even thinner, pressed together into a tight line and she blinked once. Killian glanced at Robin again – hand on Roland’s shoulder and helmet in his other hand and he shrugged again, not even trying to hide the movement from Regina. “This really isn’t about the kid and making sure he gets off his rookie deal so he can stop living in that crappy apartment in Chelsea?”

“It’s not that bad,” Phillip shouted from four lockers over. “And, you know, I don’t really spend much time there anyway…”  
  
Killian held up his hand, not particularly interested in the ins and outs of Phillip the Rookie’s relationship with Aurora, particularly when she seemed to be an endless source of frustration and insurance waivers for Emma.

“It’s not about the kid,” Regina promised, finally uncrossing her arms and that seemed important. She didn’t look quite as frustrated anymore either. She looked concerned. That was different – and disconcerting.

“Although,” she added. “If he does want to get off his rookie contract and maybe get an apartment that his girlfriend won’t absolutely despise, because I promise Phillip, Aurora absolutely despises your apartment, he should call me.”  
  
She leaned around Killian and there was a card in her hand like she’d just performed a magic trick in the middle of the New York Rangers locker room. Phillip reached a shaky hand out and he nodded slowly.

Killian just rolled his eyes. Robin looked impressed.

“Alright, Gina, I’ll bite,” Killian said, feeling as if he were giving into something. “What do you need to talk to me about two hours before puck drop?”

Regina shook her head. “Not here.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Come with me.” She tugged on his wrist and Killian nearly fell face-first into the bench in front of him, not quite prepared to start walking on skates. He tried to look back at Robin, but hardly got the chance before Regina was chastising him for that as well. “Don’t look at him,” she snapped and they were back to frustrated so quickly Killian was convinced he had whiplash. That would probably earn him a third PT appointment. “This isn’t about him.”

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, but that was mostly because he didn’t really know what was going on. And, two hours before puck drop, with Regina’s hand still gripping his wrist like a vice, he wasn’t about to argue.

She pulled him into the hallway towards Arthur’s office, the only quiet part of the locker room and they were back to the staring.

“Don’t do that,” Killian sighed.

“What?” Regina asked. They’d found their way to opposite sides of the hallway as well and there was a deeper meaning in there somewhere. He’d left his phone in his locker too – a scheduled FaceTime with Colorado just a few minutes away.

Regina didn’t say anything, just dragged her heel across the open space of hallway in front of them and Killian rolled his head back, groaning slightly when he hit against the wall. “You shouldn’t have told Liam,” he said softly, staring at his skates. “That’s not part of your job.”  
  
“El would have told him eventually,” Regina argued and neither one of them could seem to bring themselves to look at each other.

“No she wouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have told her either, if we’re going to be completely honest with each other.”  
  
“Are we?”  
  
“You tell me, Gina.”

“Might not be a bad idea, since my phone’s been ringing off the hook for a week.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“You obviously.”  
  
Killian lifted his head, eyebrows pulled low and Regina was still staring at her heels. That caught him by surprise – if there was one thing Regina Mills was good at, it was intimidation and that generally required eye contact. She’d used it to get him into the hallway and away from Robin, but, now that they were actually alone she couldn’t seem to look him in the eye.

It made him nervous.

And if there was one thing Killian absolutely did not need two hours before puck drop – well, more like an hour forty-five at this point – it was nerves.

“What about me?” he asked.

Regina took a deep breath, pushing her hair back behind her ears and he could see her teeth sink into her lip before she answered. “There’s, uh, there’s been some interest.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“Jeez, Killian, you can’t possibly be this slow.”  
  
“You know what usually helps people understand things, Gina? Words.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders weren’t quite as straight anymore and Killian almost smiled. Almost. “Interest in you and your free agency status and, well, people in front offices talk and teams know that New York hasn’t made a move yet. At least not really and they’re trying to take advantage of that.”  
  
“New York hasn’t made a move yet?” Killian asked. “Since when? I thought we were good. Gina, you said we were good!”  
  
Regina held her hands up and took a cautious step towards him only to stop as soon as she saw the look on his face. “You were the one who wanted to explore other options,” she said softly. “And they’re just being safe here. You’re the face of the franchise, they’re not just going to let you walk. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt to get out of this goal-scoring drought sooner rather than later.”  
  
“You are a picture of confidence and support, your highness,” Killian mumbled, running a hand through his hair and his chest felt tighter than it had in months.

So, he hadn’t really _told_ Regina to start focusing exclusively on New York talks or contract extensions, but he figured walking into the restaurant with Emma’s hand wrapped up in his might help and he _knew_ Regina had seen the laces around her wrist. Her eyes had practically fallen out of her head when Emma moved her hand and the sleeve of her jacket shifted and they were just laces, but it felt like something a bit bigger than that.

It felt like his agent – his _friend_ – should know that he might not be particularly interested in a trade anymore.

He should have said something out loud.

“I know you’re mad,” Regina said calmly, “but there’s no reason to fall back on insults.”  
  
“Who?” Killian asked, ignoring the apology that wasn’t really an apology.

“Who what?”  
  
“Who's been, what’s the technical term, expressing interest?”  
  
“A lot of teams actually,” she admitted, sounding as if she was giving up some sort of crucial information. “That’s why I figured you should know sooner rather than later. I just got off the phone with Dallas, trying to explain to them that green wasn’t really your color.”  
  
“Dallas?”  
  
Regina nodded, eyes wide and she took another deep breath before moving towards Killian. She tapped her nails against the plastic in his shoulder pads and the knot of anxiety in his stomach was so tight Killian was convinced it was going to do permanent damage to both of his intestines.

“And Carolina and San Jose and pretty much the entire Central Division. You’re a very popular guy.”  
  
“Just not here.”  
  
“That’s not true. They’re just biding their time. I mean, the Avs are ready to sign you at the deadline, probably before the deadline if you want.”  
  
“What?”

Regina just made a face – a _this was your idea_ without actually saying the words again – and Killian leaned back against the wall so he didn’t slide onto the floor. The deadline wasn’t for weeks – just after the charity game because, of course, it was  – and Killian hadn’t even considered the possibility that teams would want him before the end of the season. Or that any team besides the Av’s would be interested in his grizzled veteran plan at all.

And he hadn’t really thought about anything except how goddamn happy he was in the last few weeks – a phone filled with text messages about team histories and updates on a wedding he was still hoping to be a plus-one to.

It was good.

It was better than good.

They’d finally gone on a date and he’d brought her hot chocolate at two o’clock every day for the last three days, laughing openly when she suggested that he’d made a mistake and actually brought french fries instead of the onion rings he knew she ordered from the deli buffet around the block.

“I was just testing you,” Emma had muttered, leaning back in her chair as she pulled the bag out of his hand and he could feel her smile when he kissed her.

He was happy and he _almost_ didn’t care about the goal-drought, but Regina kept staring at him like he was a bomb about to go off in a few seconds and he probably should have remembered the trade deadline.

He’d just never really considered a possibility where the New York Rangers didn’t explicitly want him back on their roster – even if he’d thought about leaving.

Selfish idiot.

“They’d wait,” Regina said, completely unaware of whatever quasi-breakdown he was staging an hour and thirty two minutes before puck drop. “The Av’s I mean, they’re pretty set on being ready for you whenever you are.”  
  
“That’s because they haven’t won a game in a month,” Killian muttered.

“Earliest mathematical elimination from the playoffs in the history of the league. A perfect place to go and rot.”  
  
He scoffed, glancing up to find Regina staring at him accusingly. “A rather pointed opinion, your highness.”  
  
“And accurate. Why do you think I told El and Liam? They’re the only ones who would be able to change your mind. Just be thankful this hasn’t made its way into some sort of report. I’m almost surprised it hasn’t.”  
  
The knot got tighter and he could feel his eyes widen and Regina was looking at him differently – she kind of looked like the bomb now. “Oh, you idiot,” she half shouted, punching his shoulder hard enough to make him wince even through the pads. “Are you serious?”  
  
“You’ve only insulted me, Gina. I don’t even know what you’re asking.”  
  
“You got into some super serious relationship in the middle of a free agent season, you gave her _laces_ that she’s wearing around her wrist like some sort of flashing billboard with neon lights announcing to everyone how in love you are and you didn’t even tell Emma Swan that you were thinking about maybe leaving New York at the end of the season?”

“I don’t know that I am,” Killian admitted, digging the heel of his skate into the tiled floor underneath him.

“You know who would have also been interested in that information? Me. The person whose job it is to make sure you have a team to play for next year. God, you’re an idiot.”  
  
“Alright,” he snapped, pulling Regina’s hand away from his shoulder before she could start punching him again. “I think you’ve made that painfully clear. This is me telling you now. I’m not leaving New York.”  
  
Regina’s face shifted slightly and she was trying not to smile. “You should probably score a couple of goals tonight then.”  
  
“A couple?”  
  
“I mean, feel free to set Robin up too if you want, but front office is always more receptive when you’re doing the scoring yourself.”  
  
He laughed softly, shaking his head and Regina was absolutely smiling now. “Noted,” he said. “And, you know, you’re not really disproving my multiple sets of eyes theory when you’re the only one who noticed the laces.”

“Please,” Regina argued and the punch was more of a swat that time. “Everyone has known since the preseason. Will told everyone that she was coming to the brownstone for Christmas like he’d just found out he’d been cleared to skate again. Although,” she amended, pulling her eyebrows low, “the laces thing might only be me. And Robin now, obviously, since I had to tell someone.”  
  
“But you didn’t tell him about the deadline?”  
  
“No,” Regina said immediately, jaw snapping together as soon as the two letters were out of her mouth. “The idea hasn’t even crossed his mind that you’d consider leaving New York ever.” She paused again and Killian could practically hear the gears in her head working, waiting for the moment when steam actually started to come out of her ears.

“What?”  
  
“You’re really sure?” Regina asked, voice a bit softer than it had been throughout this entire conversation. It almost sounded sympathetic. Or, at least, concerned. “About staying?”  
  
“Is that a subtle suggestion that I shouldn’t be?”  
  
“No, of course not. But I mean, El’s pregnant again and there’ll be more kids and missed moments for _super cool Uncle Killian_ and that was why you wanted to go in the first place. I guess what I’m getting at, is, you’d really stay in New York because of Emma? What happens if you don’t win a Cup?”  
  
“You think we’re not going to win a Cup this season, Gina? Don’t tell Rol that he’ll be distraught.”

He tried to keep his voice light, keep the joking there and make sure the air didn’t actually start suffocating him in the middle of that hallway an hour and a half before puck drop. Regina glared at him. “That’s not what I’m asking at all,” she hissed. “And I’m not asking as your agent either. I’m asking as your friend and a person who is well aware that Rol will be distraught for a whole other reason if you guys don’t win a Cup and you leave.”

Killian considered his answer for half a moment before he realized there wasn’t really a point – Regina already knew the answer. And so did he.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I would. And we’re totally going to win the Cup this season.”

He expected a smile or a _I knew it_ nod or even another comment about giving Emma laces that she hadn’t taken off since Christmas. He hadn’t expected a hug and his back up against the wall and Regina’s arms around his neck and it was all so incredibly out of character that Killian actually wondered if he’d stumbled into some strange, alternate universe for half a moment.

“Uh, Cap,” a voice called from the end of the hallway and Killian snapped his head around to find Phillip the Rookie fully dressed with his still-ringing cell phone in his hand.

“Yeah, Rook, what’s up?”  
  
“Arthur’s threatening to move you to fourth line if you don’t get back in the locker room and, uh, Robin said I should bring you your phone because it’s been going off for like ten minutes straight.”

Killian rolled his eyes, running his hand across his face, but Regina was laughing openly at him. “Thanks,” he said, holding his hand when Phillip came up next to him. Four missed calls – all from El – two very long text messages from Liam that included several choice words about missing FaceTime plans and another text message that already had him smiling.

“Come on Rookie,” Regina said, shooting him a look that practically announced she expected to be paid back in martinis at the restaurant later that night. “I’ve got a couple of questions about your contract and you can tell me all about this apartment your girlfriend absolutely doesn’t despise. Maybe we can work something out before we get back into the locker room.”  
  
Phillip’s eyes widened and Killian did his best to look supportive, but he knew he came up short, eyes falling back on his phone before the sound of Regina’s heels had quite disappeared from the hallway.

**The golden triangle behind the Penguins’ gross, stupid logo is actually a representation of the golden triangle in downtown Pittsburgh, which is also a stupid name for a downtown anything, but also matches up pretty well with tonight. And you are just three points away from top-five. Plus, Soyer will absolutely lose his mind if you hat trick tonight.**

_I don’t think hat trick is actually a verb, love._

**I live with a teacher.**

_And you asked?_

**Well, no, but that doesn’t matter. Are you going to hat trick tonight or not, Jones?**

_Guess it depends._

**On?  
**  
_Are you asking for a hat trick, Swan?_  
**  
Seems awfully greedy.**

_Eh. Only a little bit._

**Hey!**

_I’ll see what I can do._

His phone _dinged_ again and it wasn’t another text message – it was a picture. And it wasn’t the hat she’d been forced into when they’d gone skating uptown. It was an actual baseball cap, the ones they sold for forty bucks in Chase Square, brim pulled low that he couldn’t quite see her eyes, but could make out her hair falling over her shoulders and the blue dress she had on underneath a blazer.

There was a fan event tonight – something with a group of kids that signed up for the fan club and they were going to be in the team suite above section 111 – and Emma had on a hat in case he just _happened_ to score three goals.

And the idea of ever leaving New York just seemed absurd at this point.

_A hat trick it is._

* * *

“How’s that brother of yours doing? Seen any good college talent lately?”

Killian groaned – and he wasn’t sure if it was because Hans Soyer seemed absolutely incapable of coming up with another insult or because the check he’d just sustained actually hurt a lot, particularly when he could feel the top of the bench collide with one of his kidneys.

“God, shut up, Soyer,” he muttered, pushing him off with his stick. “Go try and score a fucking goal or something.”

Soyer hit him again and Killian tried to breathe like a normal human being, but he could hear the crowd getting louder and there were twenty kids in the team suite who absolutely did not need to see him punch this asshole in the face.

He wanted to.

They were only a few minutes into the game and Soyer was on the Pens first line now and _that_ didn’t make any sense at all, but the world seemed intent on playing some sort of joke when Killian was three points away from cracking the top five.

“Just waiting for that PK of yours,” Soyer shot back, skating away from Killian when the ref closest to them started blowing his whistle. The crowd got louder. “Hey, speaking of family members of yours, how’s your sister?”  
  
He tried to ignore him. He really did. He could barely even hear him over the sounds of the crowd and there was an offensive zone faceoff and he needed to get to the circle. Killian lined up just to Robin’s right and Soyer was still talking when he skated up next to him, making sure to hit the side of his skates with as much ice as possible.

“I mean I haven’t seen her in years, but from what I remember about her, I’d be willing to make a few minutes for Anna. Very enthusiastic.”  
  
Killian saw red and there could have been a million kids sitting in every single seat in the Garden and he still would have turned on Soyer in that moment, dropping his stick and his gloves and ignoring the whistle.

His hand collided with helmet and _fuck_ that hurt, but he just hit Soyer again and that ref was going to break his whistle from sudden overuse.

Killian could barely keep his balance on his skates, rocking forward a bit when Soyer grabbed the front of his jersey, but then he felt an arm around his neck and Robin was trying to drag him away before he got whistled for a game misconduct.

“He’s not worth it,” Robin muttered, voice barely audible over the whistle and the crowd and Soyer actually said Anna’s name again. Killian moved, trying to pull himself out of Robin’s grip, but then there were more hands and Lance was there too and he couldn’t really fight against everyone all at once.

Soyer laughed, shaking his hair out of his eyes and bending over to pick up the helmet Killian had managed to knock off. “You’ve got to control that temper, Jones,” he said, sneering at him like he knew he’d won. “It’s going to get you into trouble down the stretch. Tell your little sister I said, hi, huh?”  
  
Killian moved again, the front of his skate sticking into the ice as he tried to pull away from both Robin and Lance. He didn’t get very far, but it turned out he didn’t have to – and Soyer didn’t even see him coming, far too busy laughing in Killian’s face to notice Phillip the Rookie moving towards him or his fist colliding with his face.

“Holy shit,” Killian mumbled, standing back up when both Robin and Lance dropped their hands, matching looks of disbelief on their faces.

“What’s that kid doing?” Robin asked.

Phillip the Rookie wasn’t small, per se, but he wasn’t exactly towering over anyone on the ice either and he certainly wasn’t taller or bigger than Soyer and he was distinctly lacking in the muscle-bound advantage.

He was, after all, a rookie.

That didn’t seem to bother him.

“I think he’s defending Cap’s honor,” Lance laughed. “Or his sister’s at least.”  
  
“Holy shit,” Killian repeated, shaking his head slightly and he hadn’t closed his mouth yet. Phillip the Rookie landed another solid right hook, left hand gripping the front of Soyer’s jersey tightly so the golden triangle looked a bit like a golden mess and it felt a bit like the entire Garden had frozen.

Except for that one ref – who would not stop blowing his whistle.

“Should, we, uh,” Lance continued, “should we help him or something?”

Killian flinched when he noticed the bruise blossoming under Soyer’s eye and he was groaning loudly now, barely able to stay standing on his skates. And he could hear everything perfectly now, the cheers and the fans behind the glass, pounding on it until he was certain they were actually going to break it.

And the realization hit him rather suddenly – almost as hard as that punch Phillip the Rookie landed again, somehow making contact when a ref started to pull him away.

He’d been so worried about being on his own in New York and missing everything in Colorado and, it appeared, he was as big an idiot as Regina claimed.

He didn’t need to go to Colorado to feel like there was _something_ that mattered.

It was here.

He needed to get out of this goal slump.

Killian shook his head, ignoring the feel of Robin’s questioning stare on the side of his head and skated forward, pulling Phillip the Rookie away from the ref who was still, somehow, blowing that goddamn whistle.

“Enough, enough, Rook,” he said, pulling the shoulder of Phillip’s jersey back over the pad. Soyer’s jersey, meanwhile, was stuck halfway over his head. “God, did you try and strangle him with his own jersey?”  
  
Phillip blinked once – like he was turning off the fighting gene – and stuttered slightly. “I honestly have no idea,” he muttered. “It all kind of feels like a blur.”  
  
“Adrenaline.”  
  
“I just...you couldn’t get a gamer and, well, he shouldn't say shit like that. Not about your sister.”

Killian nodded slowly. “Don’t let Kristoff know you were out here defending Banana’s honor. He’ll be upset he missed all the fun.”  
  
“Ah, she could probably take care of herself. You on the other hand…”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
The ref blew the whistle again and Killian turned toward center ice, dimly aware that he probably should have been talking to the refs about the calls and the state of his team and slightly overprotective rookie wingers. Phillip and Soyer both got five minutes and, somehow, Killian didn’t get anything, which seemed wrong in the grand scheme of things, but he wasn’t about to argue that if it kept him on the ice.

Or gave him a few shifts without Soyer trying to impale him on the boards.

Phillip moved towards the box when a ref came over and the crowd was a mix of boos and cheers, not quite sure whether to applaud a fight that would, undoubtedly, get shown on a loop on SportsCenter that night or jeer a fight that ended with coincidental penalties.

“You better score soon, Cap,” Phillip shouted over his shoulder, smiling at Soyer when in the box next to him when they slammed the doors shut.

Robin was laughing when he skated up to him, stick held loosely in his hand and a slightly stunned expression on his face. “Maybe we should stop calling him Phillip the Rookie,” he suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” Killian agreed. “Or maybe we could just win.”  
  
“That too.”  
  
The whistle blew again and they’d been on the ice _forever,_ but Arthur had that look in his eye – the one that had gotten them to the Cup finals four seasons ago and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look.

And something seemed to click in the back of Killian’s head, some sort of determination he’d been certain he had all season, but was only just realizing he didn’t actually possess until that very moment.

It was like a light had gone off or possibly shattered and that was a bit more dramatic, but he could see Phillip staring at Soyer through the glass in between the boxes and they weren’t just going to win this game. They were going to win the Cup and he’d get to fourth all-time in points, just because he _could,_ and then he was going to stay in New York.

He scored three minutes later – after Arthur had finally called for line changes and his legs didn’t feel like they were on fire any more – and Killian pointed towards the box as soon as he spun away from the net, Phillip’s smile obvious even from the other end of the ice.

It wasn’t an actual power play and they weren’t actually on the penalty kill, but they didn’t give up a goal during the five minutes or the entire first period.

Or, it ended up, the entire goddamn game.

They won 3-0 – and that Papa John’s promotion would actually get some use now, languishing as it had been when they’d been in that pre-holiday and post-holiday slump and maybe he wouldn’t be a post-game graphic or topic of discussion during the recap that ran before Rangers in 60.

It was a good game.

He’d had a good game – another goal in the third when Pittsburgh had pulled his goalie, but that had been it. There was no hat trick, there wasn’t even a secondary assist on Robin’s goal, Phillip getting the set up just in front of the net after Lance had knocked the puck out of the zone with just a few minutes left in the second period.

It wasn’t a hat trick.

Killian tried not to be too frustrated by that – or the text messages from El, Liam and Anna after the game, quick to point out that he could still use some work on his fighting technique and that shot he took in the opening minutes of the third probably would have been a goal if he’d just stick handled a bit better.

His fingers raced over the keys in the locker room, nodding almost instinctually when Robin asked if he wanted to split a cab uptown.

 _You’re all the most supportive. And if I had stick-handled any more I wouldn’t have even got the shot off_.

The phone buzzed back almost immediately and Robin chuckled from the locker next to Killian, a knowing smile on his face when he turned towards him. “You shouldn’t have stick handled,” he said. “They’ve actually got an alright defensive line over there. You’d have lost the puck.”

“How could you have possibly known that’s what they were talking about?”

Robin shrugged. “I’ve been around you for awhile. You get this look on your face when they start critiquing your game.”

“Huh,” Killian said, not able to come up with something slightly more intelligent or meaningful. He probably didn’t have to.

He flexed his hand instead, wincing slightly when he felt the pain shoot up his forearm and it hadn’t really hurt during the game – only a slightly sharper than usual feeling when he’d been knocked into the bench.

Robin glanced down almost immediately at the movement, clicking his tongue in disapproval when he noticed the bruise on the back of Killian’s palm. It matched up pretty well with the slightly matted blood there, the same blood that was probably on the inside of his glove. Kristoff was going to kill him.

“I had no idea it happened,” Killian said, groaning slightly when he dug his thumb into the skin. “So don’t bother looking at me like I just played through the pain or something. There was nothing that dramatic about it.”

“How’d you know that?”

“You get this look on your face,” Killian repeated, stuffing his phone back into his pocket without actually answering his text messages.

“We spend way too much time together.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
They split a cab anyway, despite the questionable amount of time they spent together and how, apparently, they could read each other’s faces and Robin didn’t say anything when Killian tried to flex his hand in the backseat of the cab again.

Ariel, however, was a different story.

She practically pounced on him the second he was in the restaurant, eyes wide and mouth set in a straight line that had Killian backing up out of instinct. Robin pushed him forward, muttering something that sounded like _coward_ under his breath. Killian barely had time to glare at him before Ariel had his left hand in hers, fingers moving over bruises and tutting when she noticed the slightly haphazard bandage they’d wrapped around it in the locker room before hailing a cab.

“Are you kidding me with this?” she snapped, staring at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t you come find me after the game?”  
  
“I star’ed Red, I had things to do.”  
  
“That’s a stupid excuse.”  
  
“Well, that’s the only one I’ve got.”

Killian glanced around the restaurant, eyes narrowing slightly as he pushed up on his toes to try and find Emma. He ignored Robin completely when he started to grumble at the idea of _being used as leverage,_ pressing the hand Ariel wasn’t still holding onto his shoulder to keep his balance.

“He’s not even listening to you, A,” Robin muttered.

“Oh I’m well aware,” Ariel answered, raising her eyebrows when Killian winced at whatever she was doing to his hand. “And don’t think you’re out of the woods yet either, Locksley, you could have done a better job playing medic.”  
  
“Not really my thing.”  
  
“Obviously.”

Robin groaned again and Killian pulled his hand away from Ariel’s with a bit more force than absolutely necessary. “I’m fine, Red,” he said, hoping it was actually the truth. “Where’s Swan? Did she come up with you?”

“Here,” Emma answered, two drinks in her hand and a worried look on her face. “And yes. And are you ok?”  
  
“It doesn’t look any worse than bruised,” Ariel said, not even giving him a chance to respond. Killian rolled his eyes, but Ariel wasn’t deterred. She glanced at Emma instead, pulling a roll of gauze out of her pocket. “Come on, Cap, Eric’ll let us in the back and I can fix Locksley’s shoddy craftsmanship.”  
  
“Do you just carry that around with you?” Killian asked and he was halfway to following Ariel when he noticed Emma shift next to him.

“Actually,” she said, tugging on the side of his jacket. “I could do it. If you want.”  
  
Two pairs of slightly stunned eyes darted between him and Emma. Killian just tried not to smile like too much of a fool. “Yeah, sure Swan. Red’s not even a real doctor anyway.”

“Jerk,” Ariel mumbled. She was smiling too.

“Let’s go, love,” Killian said and the two pairs of eyes staring at them, somehow, got even bigger at the word and the arm he’d draped over Emma’s shoulders.

Emma nodded, pushing through the crowd and towards the back of the restaurant. They weaved their way through the crowd, Killian nodded whenever anyone asked if he was ok after _that rough hit_ and Emma kept licking her lips, gaze focused ahead of her.

It took more than the few minutes it should have to reach the back of the restaurant, but Eric ushered them into the kitchen and promised it’d be a little quieter.

It wasn’t.

There were still people around and pots being stirred and pans being clanged and Emma made a face when the door swung shut behind Eric.

“I’m fine, Swan,” Killian said and she scoffed under her breath.

“What’d he do this time?”  
  
“Talked about Banana.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widened and Killian answered her expression with one of his own – something that probably looked a bit like the disbelief he’d felt in that moment on the ice a few hours before. “He knew Anna too?”  
  
“I kind of knew about that, but that’s more El territory than me.”

“Did you ask her?”  
  
“No.”

“Why not?”

Because he wanted to get uptown and forget about Soyer and ignore how much his hand hurt or how he’d absolutely known it was bleeding inside his glove for most of the third period. And that might have been why he hadn’t stick handled as much as he probably should have.

He didn’t say that out loud.

He didn’t really need to.

Emma twisted her lips, hopping onto the edge of the counter by the sink in the far corner of the kitchen and crooked one of her fingers forward. “Let’s see the damage then.”

Killian lifted his eyebrows, but he didn’t argue either, just took three steps forward until her knees were on either side of him and he’d completely forgotten about the people stirring things behind them.

She reached up slowly, lip pulled tightly in between her teeth and he saw her shoulders move slightly when she took a deep breath, tugging on the end of the bandage. Killian tried to actually shake when she pulled the gauze off his hand, grimacing slightly when the bottom took off a bit of dried up cut with it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma said quickly. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Fine.” He couldn’t even make it sound believable. Emma tilted her head, tossing the balled up gauze into the trash can that was almost _too_ conveniently placed next to her. “That’s why Red let you take over,” Killian added, smiling a bit wider when Emma’s eyebrows pulled low. “Because you’d be able to get the truth out of me.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Absolutely. It hurts like hell.”  
  
Her shoulders sagged a little and that one piece of hair that had fallen across her forehead when she bent over to examine the now-purple bruise that covered three quarters of his hand was going to drive him crazy.

Emma still hadn’t let go of her lip, finger ghosting over that _one_ scar, the one she always seemed to find, tracing up from his wrist in between his middle and ring finger. Actually, maybe that would drive him crazy. She moved slowly, eyes following the line she made with her finger and Killian found himself tugging on the inside of his cheek, trying to make sure he was still breathing and standing up.

“It’s not exactly pretty,” he mumbled and Emma rolled her eyes.

“If you’re trying to scare me off or something it’s not going to work.”  
  
“No?”

The question – and the question _within_ the question – was out of his mouth before he realized what he was even saying and Emma’s head practically snapped up when she heard what he’d asked.

Sentimental idiot.

She didn’t let go of his hand, thumb brushing over skin and scars and she stared straight at him when she answered. “No,” Emma answered. “Not anymore at least.”

“Good,” Killian said, not entirely trusting himself to say anything more.

Emma tapped her finger against the side of his hand, the one spot that wasn’t bruised. “Give me your hand, Jones. You know, between tripping over yourself on the ice and reinforcing NHL rivalries that have an entire group of school children convinced you’re dead, you’ve had quite a week.”

She ran the water over his hand, narrowing her eyes slightly when she noticed that particularly green color the one side of the bruise had shifted to. “Was it like this all game?” Emma asked, grabbing a towel Eric absolutely left for them on the counter.

“Nah. Not the whole game.”  
  
“You’re not counting those few minutes before you started punching Soyer in the face aren’t you?”  
  
“See,” Killian smiled, twisting his wrist so his palm was facing up as Emma started unrolling gauze. “Getting the truth out of me already.”  
  
“Didn’t it hurt?” Emma asked, seemingly intent on getting answers.

“Eh, not as much when I was scoring. It doesn’t really matter though, we won.” She rolled her eyes, muttering _martyr_ under her breath. “Come on, stop holding out on me. How’d tonight go?”  
  
“Really good actually. I mean the kids were worried you were dead after the fight. They were thrilled during it and I think we probably sold out of Phillip the Rookie jerseys afterwards. He’s got a whole new fanbase chock full of middle schoolers.”  
  
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. And we’ve dropped the Rookie now.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widened, lips tilting up slightly in amusement. “That so?”  
  
“Ah, well, when someone defends your honor, it only seems fair that we drop the nickname. He’s just Phillip now.”

“Look at you. A benevolent captain.” Killian shook his head, but he hissed in his breath when Emma tied the gauze he’d almost forgotten she was still wrapping around his hand. “Ah, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said quickly. “What happened?”  
  
“You wrap wounds like you’re trying to make sure my hand doesn’t actually fall off my body,” he laughed.

Emma glared at him, clicking her tongue impatiently as she tucked the end of the gauze under the rest of it and Killian’s hand looked just a bit bulkier than usual. “I’m not actually the team doctor,” she pointed out.

“Ah, but this seems to fall decidedly within relating to the community.”  
  
“Don’t pull that line again.”  
  
“Again?”  
  
She hummed in the back of her throat, glancing up at him from underneath her eyelashes before flicking the front of the jacket he still hadn’t taken off. “Yup. The first time we were in Tarrytown, you gave me your number and told me to call if I needed any communities to be related to. It was, hands down, the worst line I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Is that why you didn’t call then?”

“No,” Emma said quickly. “Because I might have fallen for the line from the get-go and that was slightly to moderately terrifying.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Not quite as much.”  
  
Killian smiled at her, pushing that piece of hair back behind her ear and letting his fingers linger on the back of her neck. And then he kissed her. Because he couldn’t come up with a reason not to – even if they were still in the middle of Eric’s kitchen.

She moved to the edge of the counter, legs wrapping a bit tighter around his until he could feel her feet hook around his calves and her hands found their way into his hair. It wasn’t more than kissing – it _couldn’t_ be because they were still in the middle of Eric’s kitchen and there was a counter involved and that one person behind them who seemed determined to make sure they hit the side of the pot every time they stirred whatever it was they were stirring – but Killian almost didn’t mind.

In fact, he probably could have stayed in the middle of Eric’s kitchen kissing Emma Swan for the rest of the night.

“I think I got robbed of my hat trick, you know,” Emma mumbled against his lips and he couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing.

“I was walking wounded all night, Swan.”  
  
“That first goal was pretty incredible though.”  
  
“No thoughts on the second?”  
  
“Are you fishing for compliments?” she laughed and her hands had found their way to the open front of his jacket, tugging on leather until he somehow managed to find a few inches of space to move even closer to her.

“Just from you.”  
  
“God, I take it back. That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“How’d it work though?”  
  
“Pretty well actually,” Emma admitted. She tugged him forward again and, eventually, he would learn how to move on actual floor. It just wasn’t that night. Or maybe just whenever he was around Emma.

That was another line.

Her lips had barely brushed against his when the door to the kitchen swung open and Killian barely noticed the red hair before he heard the loud groan. “Jeez,” Ariel sighed dramatically, “I sent you guys in here to make sure Killian wasn’t dying. Not destroy my husband’s entire kitchen.”  
  
“It’s hardly the _entire_ kitchen, Red,” Killian argued. “Just, like, this corner.”

“I don’t care. How’s your hand?”  
  
“As previously discussed, it’s fine.”  
  
“Emma?”  
  
Emma made a questioning noise, tilting her head back and forth like she couldn’t quite come up with an answer. “I mean it’s a lot of colors, but it really does just look like it’s bruised.”  
  
“See, Swan,” he said, taking a step away from her and widening his eyes until she actually smiled. “You’re pretty much team doctor.”  
  
“That’s gross,” Ariel grumbled, kicking back against the door. The restaurant was as loud as ever and Killian could dimly hear Will shouting something about Phillip’s right hook. “You guys have, like, ten seconds tops before everyone starts wondering where you went and talking about it for the rest of the week. Just so you know.”  
  
She was gone half a moment later, a blur of red hair again. Killian turned towards Emma slowly – Ariel’s declaration ringing in his ears – but she hadn’t shifted at all, hadn’t even stopped smiling when his gaze met hers.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian said and that might have been the most honest thing he’d said all day. “Of course. Thanks for fixing my hand, love.”  
  
“Well, you make promises about being a gentleman or whatever, consider this me returning the favor.”  
  
He lowered one of his eyebrows and, he swore, Emma’s eyes actually flashed, bright and green and staring at him. “Consider the favor returned, Swan. Come on, love, let’s go get some food and make sure Scarlet doesn’t try to get Phillip to start giving out fighting lessons. Gina will kill him if Rol starts punching things.”

She laughed softly, hopping off the counter and they walked back into the restaurant with fingers laced and smiles on their faces and no one even looked up. It was, just, normal.

And he was still one goal short of the top-five, but if he was going to stick with particularly bad lines, then even Killian would have to admit that  _this_ one, particular goal was even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hans continues to be the absolute worst. (And might be maybe kind of sort of based on someone real who maybe kind of sort of beat up on Phillip the Rookie's inspiration last night when the Rangers played the Pens at the Garden). 
> 
> As always, you guys are incredible. Your response to this story is incredible. So is @laurenorder who makes this make sense. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	26. Chapter 26

“Are you ok, Hook?” Roland asked, glancing back over his shoulder at Killian. Regina tugged on his hand lightly, muttering something under her breath about how they were on a moving sidewalk and he couldn’t just stop walking like that.

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, but didn’t actually answer Roland, just took a deep breath. Emma felt his shoulders move with the effort of it, his arm slung lazily over her own shoulders and she had a suspicion he was using her to stay standing up.

Roland’s feet moved quickly, barely landing on the sidewalk as he moved to keep up with Regina and Robin and the rest of the New York Rangers All-Star contingent, but he looked back at Killian once more, eyebrows pulled low with a concern that belied his six-year-old self. Although, Emma reasoned, he was wearing a Jones jersey.

Robin had grumbled about that for half the flight.

And it was so goddamn adorable that she’d almost entirely forgotten they were on a flight to Los Angeles and a weekend in the Staples Center and she had five fan events in two days and the odds of seeing Neal were almost astronomically high.

Almost. She _almost_ forgot.

Of course, she was also a bit distracted on the flight by a surprisingly-terrified-by-turbulence Killian Jones. His eyes got wider every time they hit a particularly aggressive stretch of air or wind and he gripped her hand a bit tighter than natural, lips going impressively thin when he tried to take a deep breath in through his nose.

Emma’s eyes darted towards him, still a bit paler than usual and the back of his hair was sticking up unnaturally from all the times he’d run his fingers through it.

She never thought she’d be happy to be back in Los Angeles, but if it got Killian to breathe a bit easier, then, well, maybe Emma was happy to be back in Los Angeles. And maybe she was excited for All-Star weekend and the skills competition and a few days where she didn’t have to worry about insurance waivers or making sure they had enough facilities people to properly zamboni the Garden ice before the game or how she’d have to redo all the posters because goddamn Bobby Flay had cancelled on her two days before.

Fuck Bobby Flay.

The walking sidewalk ended and Roland hopped off it with as much enthusiasm as he could, bobbing on the balls of his feet impatiently when the whole lot of them worked their way towards the front of LAX and cabs and, _God,_ everything in this stupid city was so spaced out.

“Hook?” he asked again, free hand finding its way to the side of Killian’s leg.

Killian grimaced, taking another deep breath and Emma reached her hand up to lace her fingers with his. His arm was still slung over her shoulders, but she was fairly certain she felt him relax as soon as her hand found his.

And maybe _that_ was why she wasn’t particularly upset about spending an entire weekend in LA.

“Yeah, mate,” Killian said.

“Can I ask you a question?”  
  
“You just did.”

Robin rolled his eyes and even Ruby looked passably amused, lifting her eyebrows when she finally pulled her eyes away from the phone that hadn’t stopped buzzing since they’d hit the tarmac. Roland huffed slightly, lower lip jutting out and Killian, finally, smiled, eyes lightening a bit as he mussed Roland’s hair.

And that worked a very loud groan out of Regina.

“What is it, mate?” Killian prompted, ignoring Regina’s frustrations completely.

“Well…” Roland started, stumbling over the letters. He turned back to stare at Robin who just nodded encouragingly. “Well,” he said again. “I had an idea for skills.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Roland nodded, any trace of nervous energy replaced, simply, by energy. “Yeah,” he half shouted before rushing over the rest of his thought. “ _Imgoingtoweartwojerseys_.”

Killian turned towards Emma and she shrugged in response, not quite in-tune with that particular brand of six-year-old enthusiasm. “Try again, Rol,” she said, not able to keep the smile off her face. “Just a little slower.”  
  
“Ok,” Roland said, nodding almost exactly like Robin just had. “I wanted to wear Dad’s jersey on the ice for skills because I always wear Dad’s jersey to games, but you’re here too and so Gina got me a special jersey.”   
  
“A special jersey?” Killian repeated and the tension was back in his shoulders, arm tightening just a bit around Emma. Or maybe it was just surprise.

It was definitely surprise.

It probably shouldn’t have been.

“It took forever to figure out,” Regina said, one side of her mouth pulled up despite her best attempts to sound frustrated.

“I don’t understand,” Killian muttered. There were cars in front of them and none of them moved. Ruby had stopped texting completely at this point.

“It’s two jerseys in one, Hook,” Roland explained, widening his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe Killian didn’t just _get_ it. “Yours is the front and there’s a ‘C’ and everything and then Dad’s is the back and it’s got my name on it and it was supposed to be a surprise, but you didn’t like the plane ride and I asked Dad and he said I should tell you.”  
  
“Did he?”  
  
“Yup.”   
  
Robin almost looked smug and the pre-scheduled town car driver actually honked his horn, leaning across the passenger seat to if _they were ready to go_ and none of them moved. Still. Until Killian did, arm falling away from Emma’s shoulders as he took three steps forward and crouched in front of Roland with a very specific type of look on his face.

He smiled, something ghosting over his face that looked a bit like disbelief, and Emma bit the inside of her lip. “Is it ok?” Roland asked, voice a bit quieter than it had been before. “I’m going to wear Dad’s for the game, but for skills…”  
  
“Of course, mate,” Killian cut in, hands falling on Roland’s shoulders lightly. “You’ll have the best jersey of any of us.”   
  
Roland beamed, nearly knocking Killian back on his heels when he leapt at him, arms flung around his neck and face pressed against the front of another team-branded t-shirt and Emma’s heart did something absolutely absurd.

This weekend was going to be good.

One of the car horns honked again and Regina’s entire face shifted, making Emma take a step back out of instinct when she noticed the woman’s eyes narrow and her shoulders realign as she walked towards the driver. No one honked again and it only took a few minutes to get them into cars and to hotels and respective rooms that, somehow, managed to be scattered across the entire floor.

“How did this even happen?” Emma asked Ruby, hoping, at least, their luggage made it to the right rooms.

“I have no idea,” Ruby answered. She was texting again, phone buzzing in her hand. “It’s the league, you’d think they’d just want us all organized by team, but that would mean we wouldn’t be forced into awkward social situations and I’m half convinced the big whigs up top actually enjoy forcing us to talk.”  
  
“Aren’t we all supposed to be a united front this weekend or something?”

“Please,” Ruby scoffed, finally stuffing her phone in her pocket as she pulled out a room key. “The opposite. This weekend is like a chance for us all to prove our worth against other teams. Wait until you see the garbage the Flames try to pass off as a fan meet-up, you’ll never question how good you are at your job again.”

Emma made a contrary noise in the back of her throat, laughing softly as she tried to fish her own room key out of her back pocket. “Remind me of that when we get six people to show up later tonight.”  
  
“Please. You’ll get ten. At least.”   
  
“You’re a beacon of support.”   
  
Ruby stuck the key into the lock of the door in front of her, pressing forward when the telltale click came, but she turned back towards Emma before she actually walked in, ignoring, what sounded like, half a dozen messages.

“You’re really going to be going be ok going back in there?” Ruby asked and she didn’t really need to be any more specific.

“Sure,” Emma answered quickly. Ruby twisted her eyebrows, staring at Emma skeptically. “No, really,” she promised. “I mean, you’re right, we’ll get some fans for the events and there’s a whole group of season tickets slated to be at skills and we’ve got that post-game thing at Tom’s Urban on Sunday. I’ll be so busy I’m sure I’ll barely even have time to think about anything except sticking to the schedule.”  
  
“That so?”   
  
“I just said it, didn’t I?”   
  
“Yeah, doesn’t mean you actually believe it.”   
  
Emma pressed her tongue on the inside of her cheek, leaning against a door that absolutely wasn’t hers. “I do,” she said softly, but there was a conviction in her voice surprised even her. It very obviously surprised Ruby.

“You’re happy.”  
  
It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Emma agreed, certain her smile was taking up three quarters of her face.

“Anyone tell you that you two are disgustingly adorable all the time, either? That whole holding your hand whenever we hit turbulence was like something out of a made for TV movie.”  
  
“Oh, please,” Emma brushed off, ignoring whatever warning bells were going off in the back of her head that Killian wasn’t actually scared of turbulence. “This is your fault anyway. You and Reese’s came up with the set-up to begin with.”   
  
“Nah, this is totally your fault, Em. And his too, I guess. You guys fought the set-up, you just couldn’t fight off each other.” Ruby scrunched her nose, making some kind of vaguely disgusted noise when she realized what she’d just said. “Jeez, now I sound like a made for TV movie. Look what you’re doing to me.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes. She was still smiling. “You, literally, give your girlfriend media leaks so she can alert the rest of her staff. _That’s_ disgusting.”

“Whatever,” Ruby muttered, waving her hands through the air. “Seriously though, Neal hasn’t tried to talk to you? Like at all?”

“Nope,” Emma said and the frustration she’d expected at the inevitably of this conversation didn’t show up the way she thought it would. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she’d never actually told Mary Margaret she’d landed, too wrapped up in Roland Locksley’s continued adorableness and trying not to actually breathe too loudly when Killian’s hand found the inside of her thigh in the back seat of the town car.

“Huh,” Ruby mumbled.

“Were you expecting him to? I mean he didn’t tell me he was taking my job until he showed up in my office with a box of his own stuff. I doubt he’d go out of his way to find out if I’m coming back for All-Star weekend. For all I know he doesn’t even realize I’m working for the Rangers.”  
  
“Your name’s on the website,” Ruby pointed out as Emma looked down at her phone.

It wasn’t Mary Margaret. Although she should really text Mary Margaret. Or call Mary Margaret. And apologize. After she remembered how to speak.

_Did you know that Los Angeles has the largest system of roadways in the entire country? Nearly 7300 miles._

**Don’t remind me. That just makes me think of hours stuck in traffic out here.**

_There was a lead up to this, Swan. Let me finish the set-up._

**That word though.**

_Swan._

**Yeah, yeah, go.**

_This stupid city has the largest system of roadways in the entire country, but the only one I’m particularly interested in is the hallway between my room and yours._

**Oh my God, you did not just text that.**

_The only way I could say it without actually laughing hysterically was by texting it. C’mon your place or mine?  
_   
**You’re serious.**

 _If you think I’m not going to take advantage of this entire weekend, you’re horribly mistaken._ _Fifteen minutes._

Emma bit her lip, that pack of butterflies she was certain always seemed to appear whenever he pulled out ridiculous lines or announced he wanted to spend an entire weekend in her hotel room making a return appearance in the pit of her stomach.

“You know,” Ruby said knowingly, smiling as she kicked back against her door. “I argued on behalf of this.”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“Told Z there was probably no point in getting you your own room.”   
  
“Jeez, Rubes. Why didn’t you take out an ad in Page Six too?”

Ruby shrugged. “It’s not like everyone doesn’t know. You think Robin and Regina are staying separate rooms? They’ve got like a suite or something.”  
  
“They’re married.”   
  
“Yeah and you haven’t taken those laces off your wrist since we came back from Christmas.”

Emma’s eyes widened and she didn’t even have a response, every argument dying on the tip of her tongue because, well, there wasn’t really anything to argue. She hadn’t taken the laces off her wrist since Christmas, had started tugging on them in between her thumb and forefinger whenever something particularly frustrating happened and she was terrified she was about to actually rip them in half when Bobby Flay cancelled on her two days before.

Killian had noticed – of course he had noticed – asking about it just before Emma had fallen asleep, eyes closed and half a dozen pillows under head. It had become a thing, spending game nights in that ridiculously large apartment just a few blocks away from Lincoln Center – slightly out of necessity since the loft was starting to look more and more like a wedding boutique than any actual sort of living space and also slightly out of want and if Mary Margaret had any sort of opinion on it, she’d been mercifully silent on the subject.

Emma told him about Bobby Flay, not even bothering to turn around to look at him and Killian’s arm tightened around her waist, fingers finding their way back to the laces and the back of her wrist. He laughed softly when he realized he’d left a trail of goosebumps in his wake and Emma had felt his smile when his lips found the back of her neck, sparking even more goosebumps.

She’d deal with an infinite number of goosebumps, however, just to make sure she heard that strangled way he muttered _Swan_ under his breath when she shifted against him.

Ruby was still staring at her, arms crossed lightly over her chest as her eyes drifted back towards the laces that were nothing short of obvious in the short-sleeve shirt Emma had on. “Yeah, well,” Emma said, not even bothering to finish the sentence.

“Fuck Neal?” Ruby suggested.

“That works too.”  
  
“And no one is selling you out to Page Six. Trust me, you’re not that interesting. You’re just serving as some sort of disgusting new marker for romance on this team. I mean, no big deal or anything. Also make sure you call Mary Margaret because she’s already texting me asking why you haven’t.”   
  
Emma sighed, but she nodded, glancing at the number on Ruby’s door. She wasn’t anywhere near her room. “How come you’re all the way down here? I’m at the other end of the hallway.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You think I was going to let them put me next to you during All-Star weekend when your boyfriend is captain of the Metro? Please. I made sure I was nowhere near that. In fact, no one is, so you’re welcome or something.”   
  
“How did you manage to do that?”   
  
“I don’t even know why you’re surprised by this, Em. I thought we’d just agreed to my ability to do anything. Especially when the league is involved.” Ruby flashed her another smile, that one that made Emma certain she _could_ do anything when the league was involved, and kicked her door open. “You better get to your room anyway. Call M’s before Killian knocks down your door or something equally romantic.”

Emma didn’t have a chance to respond before Ruby’s door was closed and, well, she probably had a point.

Her phone rang before she even had a chance to hit Mary Margaret’s speed dial and Emma couldn’t quite fight off the smile on her face as she made her way down the hallway, room key still held loosely in her hands.

“How come you didn’t tell me about Bobby Flay?” Mary Margaret asked without preamble and Emma blinked once, surprised by this sudden descent into over-protective.

“Did I not?” Emma countered.

“Nope.”  
  
“I’m glad he’s not catering our wedding,” David added and Emma rolled her whole head as the door to her hotel room unlocked.

“Oh my God, Reese’s did you put me on speaker phone to ask about Bobby Flay?”  
  
Mary Margaret made a noise in the back of her throat and Emma knew the dismissal when she heard it. “You know Ruby told me,” she said. “Because Ruby answers her phone.”   
  
“That’s because Ruby is always on her phone.”

“Tell Bobby Flay that we’re going to boycott his restaurant and his show from now on,” David added, voice sounding a little distant, like he was shouting from the other side of the loft.   
  
“Is David in a cave?” Emma asked. She sank onto the corner of the bed, kicking her flats off while trying to keep her phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. “And I highly doubt Bobby Flay will be particularly offended with your boycott. When’s the last time you could afford his restaurant?”   
  
“Hey if that team of yours can hold onto its playoff berth and, you know, maybe win the President’s Trophy we can probably afford any restaurant in the city.”   
  
“You’re a degenerate,” Emma accused, laughing as she fell back on the mattress. There weren’t nearly as many pillows on this bed and, for probably the first time in her entire life, that felt a bit strange.

“Tell Killian to score more goals.”  
  
“That’s not really my job.”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret cut in, “your job is to tell your best friend when you’re having work troubles so that she can make more alcohol-based baked goods.”   
  
“You’re both degenerates! Who knew you were hiding such debaucherous personalities underneath those shiny exteriors.”   
  
“That’s just rude, Emma.”   
  
“And it’s not like I haven’t had other things going on besides Bobby Flay. They’re trying to give away my date and that’s been a whole thing and Aurora’s only _just_ starting to process the waivers for the kid’s from Henry’s house and we’ve got that fan event thing in front of the Staples later tonight. It’s just been a lot and you guys…”   
  
“What?” Mary Margaret asked, voice softer than Emma was quite prepared for.

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes, making a face she was aware no one would actually be able to see. “You’ve got all that wedding stuff going on. I mean we’re closing in on final steps and paying things off and I didn’t want to load you down with more things because you don’t need to always be worried about me.”  
  
“That’s my job.”   
  
“No it isn’t.”   
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret said slowly, the sounds of the creaking couch in the background. “Of course it is. And not just because you’re under some misconstrued belief that you’re actually our kid or something. Because I want it to be.”   
  
“Absolutely,” David added. He’d come back into the living room, voice perfectly clear in its affirmation and Emma bit her lip. She still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“But the wedding,” she argued, not entirely certain what she was arguing.

“Is going fine,” Mary Margaret promised quickly. “Better than fine. Your dress should probably get altered soon, but other than that, it’s almost easy. You don’t have to think that there isn’t a place for you in that. There is. Always.”  
  
There was a noise on the other end of the phone and Emma knew David had grabbed it off its likely resting place on the coffee table. “And we’re totally not going to invite Bobby Flay to the wedding anymore.”   
  
“Was that a part of the plan before?” Emma asked, shaking a bit from the force of her laughter.

“It could have been if he wasn’t an ass about your game.”  
  
“Good to know.”   
  
“They’re trying to bump you?”   
  
Emma shrugged, the top of the hotel-provided comforter scrunching underneath her. “I don’t know. There’s a couple of tours, you know like bands and stuff, that they’re trying to book because it’s a free day and that rarely happens in March. So, I don’t know, they might try and bump me and Mer’s been trying to fight them off and we’ve been ok, but it’s All-Star weekend and no one seems particularly interested in answering my increasingly desperate e-mails.”   
  
David and Mary Margaret sighed in unison on the other end of the phone and the other side of the country and the irony of having this conversation while she was back in LA for the first time wasn’t lost on Emma.

“It’ll be fine,” Mary Margaret said, but the promise didn’t ring completely true.

“We’ll see,” Emma said flippantly, determined not to give in to the gnawing idea that this wouldn’t actually work. It had been sitting in the back of her head for the last few weeks. She’d done a good job of ignoring it – helped a bit by Mary Margaret’s eternally optimistic outlook and the laces around her wrist – but it was still there and, eventually, she’d have to deal with.

She just had to get through All-Star weekend first.

Emma rolled her head to the side when she heard the knock on the door, her breath catching audibly in throat loud enough that both David and Mary Margaret asked if she was ok.

“Fine, fine,” Emma said quickly, almost jogging to the door when he knocked again. “Impatient assh…” she muttered under her breath as she swung the door open, but she didn’t get the chance to finish the thought.

Killian moved before she was entirely ready for it, head ducked and eyes bright and Emma’s whole body tightened at the sight of it, even if he was still wearing team-branded. And then he noticed the phone, still pressed against her ear, and he could probably hear Mary Margaret on the other end, practically shouting _what’s going on_ at her.

He closed his eyes lightly and pressed his lips together, tugging them back behind his teeth as he dragged his eyes back up to Emma’s.

She made a face and Killian didn’t blink, just rested both his hands on her hips and waited. “Uh, Reese’s,” Emma sputtered, groaning slightly when she realized just how eager she sounded. “Listen, I, uh, I’ve got to go.”  
  
And Emma might have been on the other side of the country, might have been secretly avoiding her two best friends because she’d been worried she was somehow intruding on their wedding plans, but she could still practically _see_ the light bulb go on over Mary Margaret’s head.

“Oh,” she said slowly and knowingly and a few other adverbs Emma would have remembered if Killian’s hand hadn’t found its way under the edge of her shirt already. “Right. Yeah, yeah, right. Go. Go.”  
  
“But let us know how tonight goes, ok?” David asked and Mary Margaret’s sigh was nothing short of deafening.

“Let her go, David,” she said. She had her hand on his shoulder – Emma was certain of it. “She’s got stuff to do.”  
  
Killian's eyebrows shot up at that, smirk settling on his face and Emma let her head fall forward, landing on the front of his t-shirt. He kissed the top of her hair, hand tightening a fraction of an inch.

“What was that?” David continued. “Wait, wait, Em is there someone in your room?”  
  
“I’ve got to go,” Emma repeated, not entirely sure what else to say. Killian had stopped even trying to hide his laughter, the sound ricocheting off the walls of her hotel room and into that back corner of Emma’s brain that had, just a few moments ago, been worried about half a dozen different things.

“Hey, Killian,” David shouted.

“You’re not on speaker phone.”  
  
“Whatever.”   
  
“I’m hanging up now.”   
  
“Bye Killian.”   
  
The line clicked and Emma pulled her phone away from her ear, tossing it onto the bed before turning back to Killian to find him staring at her like she was the goddamn sun. “Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled. “Reese’s thought I was dead and she was texting Ruby about it and then there was wedding talk and they want to bump my game…”   
  
She hissed in the air she suddenly couldn’t quite breathe, grimacing and squeezing her eyes shut so she couldn’t see the inevitable look on Killian’s face. “Wait, what?” he asked, the thumb of his left hand finding its way underneath her chin until Emma had to lift her head back up.

He didn’t look confused. He looked concerned.

“Apparently three different bands just announced spring tours and they want to open at the Garden and there’s been some talk I might get bumped.”  
  
“To?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”   
  
“No one’s told you?”   
  
“It’s All-Star weekend. And it’s not entirely certain yet, but I’m kind of steeling myself for it. I mean they’re going to take a concert over a charity game every single time, no matter how many GD commercials they pump out on local stations every night.”   
  
“Fuck that,” Killian muttered and the intensity in his voice took Emma by surprise. He already had his phone out of his back pocket and his thumb was moving so quickly Emma was concerned he was going to inadvertently dislocate it.

“Hey, hey,” she said, tugging the phone out of his hand. Killian made a noise in the back of his throat and her free hand found its way to his cheek, brushing over the stubble on the side of his jaw. “It’s ok. You don’t need to rescue my event. I can take care of it.”  
  
“I’m not doubting that, love.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Of course not.” He pulled back slightly, staring at her in a way Emma couldn’t quite ever remember being stared at and he smiled before he spoke again. “You can do anything, Swan.”

The hotel room suddenly felt a bit smaller than normal, air just a bit thicker and Emma blinked twice before she trusted herself to say anything. And then she didn’t say anything at all. Because she still wasn’t all that great at emotions, but she had laces around her wrist and Killian kept staring at her in that very particular way.

So she didn’t say anything.

She kissed him instead.

And she appreciated his quick intake of breath almost as much as she appreciated the way his hand tightened again, tracing across skin and moving towards her back like he was trying to make sure every inch of her body hit every inch of his.

Emma pressed up on her toes and her fingers found his hair, pushing into the bottom of it and keeping him pulled against her. He didn’t argue, just made some noise in the back of his throat that seemed to shoot straight to her core.

They were moving – Emma could feel her feet shifting on the carpet, but they weren’t going the direction she assumed they’d move in. Killian’s hands tightened around her back again and her feet weren’t on the carpet anymore, toes skimming over it slightly when he spun her, body colliding against the door.

There was a vaguely sarcastic, slightly teasing comment just half a breath away, – something about having done this door thing before and maybe he wasn’t just obsessed with her hair – but that would have required her to have half a moment and she didn’t, not when Killian’s hands inched dangerously high, pushing her t-shirt away with an enthusiasm that made her breath hitch.

He groaned when she moved, hips pressed up against his and the room moved. Or maybe that was the Earth.

And maybe Emma just loved her boyfriend a ridiculous amount.

No, Emma loved Killian Jones a ridiculous amount.

No matter what.

“I think…” Emma mumbled, shoulders moving quicker than normal when she tried to catch her breath. Killian widened his eyes at her, stunned silent at the idea that she’d actually start talking in the middle of whatever it was they were doing. He made up for it by trailing kisses along her neck and Emma’s head hit back almost painfully against the door.

“You were saying, love,” he said, muttering the words against her skin and there were those goosebumps again.

“You’re distracting.”  
  
“That’s kind of the point.”   
  
Emma laughed – or at least started to laugh before it became a different noise all together as soon as his teeth grazed over her collarbone. “You can’t do that,” she said, voice hardly sounding like her own. “I’ve got to get dressed up later.”   
  
Killian hummed against her and she could feel the ends of his mouth tick up, hands moving towards her legs and the backs of her thighs when he bent down slightly. She moved without instruction or suggestion, calf wrapped around the back of his and his chest moved a bit quicker than normal when Emma fingers twisted around his belt loops.

“We could move,” Killian said.

“You’re the one who started pushing people up against doors and attack-kissing while they were on the phone.”  
  
“I did no such thing. In fact, if memory serves, I actually stopped while you were on the phone. You were the one trying to end the conversation, love. Why do you think that was?”   
  
He did something ridiculous with his eyebrows, eyes going wide until all Emma could think about was blue and maybe they had some time before whatever schedule she’d already forgotten.

It was a very big hotel, full of NHL players and front office and people who had plenty of things to do that weekend, except, it seemed, the person on the other side of the door and they both made a noise when the first knock came.

“God damnit,” Killian sighed and the second knock came just as quickly as the first. “We need to find an island.”  
  
“An island?”   
  
“Mmm hmm. Somewhere by ourselves where people won’t demand we get ready for instructional outings at the worst possible times.”   
  
“Maybe you'll learn something.”   
  
The third knock was joined by a shout from the hallway and Roland Locksley sounded a bit more impatient than Emma had ever heard him. “Emma,” he yelled, sounding like he was throwing his entire body against the door. “We’ve got to go. The car is already back!”

There was laughter behind him – Robin not even trying to disguise the sound of his own voice – and Killian rolled his eyes, taking a step away from Emma and running a hand through his hair. “That’s probably not going to work,” she said, nodding towards that one piece in the back that refused to actually go down.

“Ah, well, Locksley can cope. This was his idea anyway.”  
  
Emma nodded, pulling the bottom of her t-shirt down until it almost looked presentable. “It was both your idea, don’t try and pretend like it wasn’t. And don’t try and act like you don’t want to go. It’s a planetarium.”   
  
“I think the technical term is observatory.”

Emma rolled her eyes and while she didn’t particularly appreciate being interrupted, she might have been excited as well – agreeing to the idea as soon as Killian and Robin had brought it up at the restaurant two days before, something about making sure Roland did something _educational_ when they were in LA.

And she’d never been to Griffith Observatory, even after living in this stupid city for nearly three years.

She hadn’t mentioned that to Killian. He probably knew.

“I know you’re in there too, Cap,” Robin said, kicking the door for good measure. “C’mon, Gina’s already downstairs trying to placate the driver so he doesn’t leave without us.”  
  
Emma sighed, stepping back into her flats as Killian swung the door open. And Robin had a look on his face that practically screamed he knew what had been happening in that very large hotel room just a few minutes before. “Fix your hair,” he said, nodding towards Killian. “Gina will notice otherwise.”   
  
He walked away without another word and Emma couldn’t quite hold in her laugh. “An island, Swan,” Killian muttered, tugging her out into the hallway. “We’re going to get an entire goddamn island and no one’ll be able to interrupt.”

* * *

It wasn’t bad.

It was, in fact, bordering almost excruciatingly close to downright endearing – Roland tugging the whole group of them through exhibit after exhibit, determined to _see the stars_ and they did, after all, have a schedule to stick to and tickets to a show and Emma bit her lip when Killian’s hand found hers as soon as the lights went out.

He didn’t let go of it when the lights came back on or when Roland stared at them with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, stunned, it seemed by a twenty-minute presentation about the entire universe.

And he didn’t let go of her hand in the car ride back to the Staples Center, Emma’s teeth practically working their way through her entire lip at that point.

“It’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian said softly, squeezing her fingers and his thumb looped through the laces on her wrist.

“I know,” she answered and it wasn’t a lie. It would be fine. She’d planned and had all the right permits and there’d be fans and Killian and Robin would smile and pose. They’d sign autographs and there’d be enough photos to warrant an album and Emma could send it to the season-tickets later that night.

It would be fine.

It was just getting out of the car, however, that was proving to be a bit difficult. And Emma had never considered herself much of a coward before, a determination to prove everyone wrong fueling her for most of her life, but all she wanted in that moment was the island Killian kept talking about, or maybe a few more hours in that observatory with her eye pressed against a telescope and the stars in front of her.

She didn’t want to see the Staples Center ever again.

That didn’t seem to matter. They’d stopped in front of it and the driver was clicking his tongue impatiently in the front seat and Emma still hadn’t moved, lip bleeding now.

“You know it’s illegal to lick a toad in the city of Los Angeles,” Killian said suddenly, turning towards her and ignoring whoever was tapping on the window. It was Ruby – Emma could barely make out red nails through the slightly tinted glass.

“What?” she asked and he smiled at her.

“Yup, super illegal.”  
  
“Can something be not super illegal?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “I mean I don’t think stealing gum from one of those corner stands in midtown is illegal.”   
  
“Yes it is.”   
  
“Semantics.”

“Did you steal a lot of gum when you were a kid?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Swan. We lived downtown, getting into midtown would have required public transportation.”   
  
“Yuh huh. How often would you say you snuck onto the uptown one?”   
  
He moved his eyebrows quickly and his fingers were still wrapped up in hers. “At least once every two weeks, more often when we got older and a bit more determined to break the rules. They only caught us...twice?”   
  
“Was that a question?”   
  
“Ah, well, either way it wasn’t a lot.”   
  
“I don’t know about that. I bet Mr. Vankald knew the entire time. He probably just trusted that you guys would look out for each other.” Something passed over Killian’s face and the smile wasn’t quite as _light_ as it had been a few moments before, something serious hanging onto the end of it that Emma couldn’t quite name. She tried another route instead, twisting in her seat until her knee hit against Killian’s and her free hand worked its way back in his hair. “What time are they getting here?”   
  
“Not until tomorrow. Early though, so they can get organized before skills.”   
  
Emma hummed in approval and the knocking on the window was banging now – from more than one fist. “I love you,” she said and Killian’s eyebrows shot up his forehead quickly.

She didn’t say the rest of it – that she knew he was trying to distract her with facts about Los Angeles so she wouldn’t worry about the Staples Center or this entire, stupid city or that he wasn’t quite as nervous about the turbulence as, she suspected, he was nervous about being captain of the Metro and being an All-Star in front of his entire family.

Later. She’d tell him all that later. When they bought that island. Or, she hoped, when one of them found their way into each other’s hotel room.

“I love you too, Swan,” Killian said, head falling forward until his hair fell close to his eyes. “More than anything.”  
  
And he’d never said _that_ part before.

Emma’s mouth was still hanging open, eyes a bit wider than normal when Ruby gave up on banging completely, swinging the door open and sighing loudly when she saw the sight in the backseat of this town car.

“Jeez,” she muttered. “There’s another human in this car, guys. Sorry, Doc.”  
  
“It’s alright, Ms. Lucas. Not the worst thing that’s happened in the backseat of one of my cars.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled and even Killian looked a bit scandalized at what _had_ happened in the backseat of Doc’s cars. “Alright, alright, we’re coming. How’s it look out there?”

Emma tried to get a look at the crowd – but she couldn’t see anything over the Kings signs in front of her and the sea of black and silver that had taken over nearly every available space in the entire goddamn square.

“Oh, fuck,” she sighed, tugging on the ends of her hair. “What the hell is this?”  
  
“This is why I was trying to get you out of the car,” Ruby said, pushing the door closed as soon as Killian was next to Emma. “He’s….” Ruby didn’t get to finish.

She got interrupted by a voice Emma hoped she wouldn’t hear once during All-Star weekend or ever again if she was being honest. “Goddamnit,” Emma said under her breath and Ruby rolled her eyes.

“Los Angeles is home to the largest boulder ever transported,” Killian muttered in her ear, hand falling on Emma’s back. “Like three hundred tons or something absurd. It’s at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”  
  
“You don’t know its exact measurements?” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder to find him grinning at her. Ruby’s eyes were probably going to get stuck mid-roll.

“Three hundred and forty tons. It took eleven days to move.”  
  
“I knew you knew.”   
  
Killian nodded, eyes moving above Emma’s head when the voice shouted her name again and he didn’t move his hand. If anything he took a step closer to her, arm brushing up against her shoulder and Neal looked like his eyes were going to fall out of her head.

She shifted her shoulders, shaking her hair off and her fingers ghosted over the laces on her wrist before she could stop herself.

Neal’s eyes got wider.

And Emma didn’t move at all, just licked her lips quickly and stared straight ahead, wondering why she’d been worried about this in the first place.

She, quite simply, didn’t care.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Neal said, taking a step forward like he was going to hug her before thinking better of it. Although that might have been because of the combined force of Emma, Ruby and Killian’s glare.

“You were hoping I’d be here?” Emma repeated. “At my own event?”

“Wait, what?”  
  
Emma waved her hand through the air in front of her – Neal’s gaze distracted for half a moment when he stared at her wrist. “This is mine,” she said, nodding towards the small patch of blue and red in the one corner the Kings hadn’t apparently seized control of. “Or it’s supposed to be. What the hell is going on Neal?”

“Wait, wait, back up. Where are you working now?”  
  
Emma took a moment to glance meaningfully at Ruby –  _I told you_ and Ruby just shook her head, glaring even more intently at Neal. And it was only then that he seemed to notice the NHL All-Star standing behind Emma, head snapping back when he saw Killian and the placement of his hand. “Killian Jones?” Neal asked, sounding as if he was surprised to see him there.

“So they tell me,” Killian answered quickly.

“Ems, do you work for the Rangers?”  
  
She nodded slowly, tongue pressed against her cheek in frustration. “Yup. And you’re fucking up my event, Neal. I’ve got seventeen different permits that promised me exclusive use of the square tonight. What the hell is all of this black and silver?”   
  
“Well, it is our arena, Ems.”   
  
Emma huffed at the ancient nickname and the look on Neal’s face – that knowing stare that seemed to tell her _this is how it is_ and she’d seen it enough in Vancouver when he told her she worked too hard.

“I’m more than aware whose arena it is,” Emma shot back and the fans had noticed Killian now. They were moving. “Jesus,” she muttered. “Can you guys do something about this?”  
  
“Sure,” Ruby answered, turning on the crowd before they’d even made it halfway across the square.

Killian squeezed his hand, fingers moving around the curve of her waist and Neal appeared to have gone into cardiac arrest. “Each spring the Getty Museum hires goats to help manicure its lawns, which seems like cheating, but they do.”

“Thanks,” Emma said softly and Killian nodded once, humming in the back of his throat before leaving a vaguely stunned Neal Cassidy in his wake.   
  
“What the hell was that?” Neal asked.

Emma turned towards him – finally getting a good look and she wasn’t entirely certain what she saw. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and a nervous twitch to his hands that she only just realized hadn’t stopped since he walked over to them. He had a tie on, but the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up and there was a pinch in between his eyebrows that made it look like he was trying to figure out what to say.

She knew what to say.

And that was a pleasant surprise.

“Get your people out of here, Neal,” Emma hissed. “I’ve got permits and permission and this square is mine for the next two and a half hours. At least.”  
  
“Ems,” he said softly, staring at her like he’d never seen her before. He hadn’t. Not like this. It kind of felt like adrenaline or a livewire shooting through every single one of her veins and Emma didn’t say anything else, just crossed her arms over her team-branded t-shirt.

“You’re really in New York now,” Neal continued. He took that step forward again and Emma backed up, instincts taking over immediately.   
  
“Obviously,” she said, pointing at the _NEW YORK RANGERS_ emblazoned across her shirt.

“But not PR.”  
  
“Again, obviously. Community relations, fan experiences and events.”   
  
“You have a card?”   
  
“You looking for proof?”   
  
“No,” Neal laughed and Emma resisted the urge to punch him. “Just always good to have those kinds of things in case you want to meet up this weekend.”   
  
“I don’t.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Emma made a face, glancing towards the crowd of Rangers fans she’d wrangled in Los Angeles and she could hear Roland already sparking something that sounded a bit like a _We want the Cup_ cheer. And she wasn’t sure how it happened, but Killian turned when she did and that felt a little instinctual too, eyes meeting over the top of someone who’d camped out for several hours for a photo.

He smiled at her.

“Huh,” Neal muttered. “Really?”  
  
“You’re not asking any actual questions,” Emma sighed, pulling her gaze back to him. “And I really do have an event, so unless you have something to say, I’ve got to go run photo ops.”

“Are you two...a thing?”  
  
“A thing? What are you twelve?”   
  
Neal laughed again and shook his head. “You’re different than you were in Vancouver,” he said. “Different than you were even when everything went down here.”   
  
“When you took my job.”   
  
“That’s not what happened.”   
  
“Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“How long?” Neal asked. Emma rocked back on her heels, holding her hands up in confusion.

“Real questions,” she answered, half shouting the words at him and she could feel Killian’s eyes on her when her voice picked up.

“How long have you and Jones been dating?”  
  
Emma groaned loudly, staring up at an improbably blue sky and clouds that were almost _too_ puffy to actually be real. “Oh my God, you’re doing this now? Get your people out of my event!”

“You know there was talk around the league that he’d started something.”  
  
“Jesus Christ.”   
  
Ruby was staring now too and even Roland had stopped shouting about the Cup. Regina had taken over – voice making its way to Emma’s ears when she tried to reorganize the line, telling Mulan to _start taking photos again._

Neal didn’t stop.

He was still talking and Emma was only half listening, the pad of her thumb running up and down her laces.

Oh. That might have been the first time she’d considered the laces hers. That was a change of pace. It was probably because he’d said _more than anything_ in the backseat of a town car.

“It’s true,” Neal pressed, taking another step towards her. “It’s been all over the league, people started talking about it when he hit that slump. You know just after Christmas?” Emma didn’t trust herself to nod. Neal, however, didn’t seem to care. “I guess someone from the Isles saw him leaving the arena with someone and, well, you know the league Ems. It spread from front office to front office.”  
  
Emma _did_ know the league, but she’d never heard anything like that – had never been part of some sort of cross-country rumor and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard a rumor about a player’s relationship status when she was in LA or Vancouver.

Something was wrong.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma said. Neal didn’t look convinced. It was probably because she didn’t sound very convincing.

“Have you been with the Rangers all season?” he asked and she recognized the change in approach almost immediately. He was trying to make her comfortable.

“Yeah, since August. Are you going to get your people out of here or not? I know you can’t do anything about the decorations, but we’re supposed to be Rangerstown’ing and that’s difficult when people are screaming about Kings players a few feet away.”  
  
Neal shrugged and Emma’s vision nearly went red, eyes narrowed and lip held tight between her teeth. “I can’t, Ems,” he said, not even sounding remotely apologetic. “We’ve been here almost all day. We’ve got players coming.”   
  
“I’ve got players here! Already! They’re taking pictures right now.”   
  
“I don’t know what you want me to do.”   
  
“Of course you don’t,” she sighed, grabbing her phone and maybe there was a restaurant they could go to who wouldn’t mind twenty-five screaming Rangers fans.

“You really don’t have a card? There’s some time before skills tomorrow, maybe we could get coffee or something.”  
  
“No,” Emma said, hardly even pausing long enough to let him finish the question.

“You busy?”  
  
“No, I don’t want to.”

Neal took a step back at that, staring at her like he’d just been shocked and Emma heard Ruby’s heels coming back towards her. “We should probably get out of here, Em,” Ruby said, sounding a bit resigned to the situation and the general awfulness of the entire Los Angeles Kings organizations. Or, at least, its PR director.

“There’s a pizza place around here,” Emma muttered, staring at the map on her phone. “We could do something with that. New York angle. Get Mulan to take pictures.”  
  
“And if they don’t let us in?”   
  
“Buy fifteen pies and we’ll sit on the goddamn street.”   
  
“Perfect.”   
  
Neal made a noise, something that was probably supposed to sound like approval and Emma stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “Bye Neal,” she said, turning on him before he could even open his mouth to answer.

“You alright, love?” Killian asked as she soon as she came up to the crowd.

Emma nodded. “Did you hear the pizza plan?”  
  
“Ruby’s already on the phone with them I think.”   
  
“Efficient.”   
  
“Ah, well, you’re in charge so…”   
  
“Those compliments, you’ll have me thinking you believe in me or something.”   
  
He beamed at her, arm slung over her shoulder. “Good.”

* * *

It all worked.

The pizza was...acceptable and no one would be able to tell that it was bordering a bit closer to the _shitty_ side than it was to the actual edible, New York-style pizza side when they saw it in the gallery Emma hoped Mulan was putting up at that very moment.

She was a bit distracted.

She was back against the door.

“You think it went ok?” Emma muttered, groaning slightly when her head hit against the door as she pulled away to talk.

“Swan,” Killian sighed. “You’re interrupting some of my best work here. And, yes, of course it went better than ok. You planned it.”  
  
“And replanned it.”   
  
“And replanned it,” he repeated, smiling at her when he brushed her hair back behind her ear. His fingers lingered there for a moment before trailing down the side of her neck and the collar of her t-shirt and Emma had never considered a future where she could ever feel _something_ while wearing team-branded, but she did.

“It was fantastic, Swan,” Killian continued and she made some kind of impossible noise when he _nipped_ against her ear. “And tomorrow will be fantastic and Sunday will be fantastic and then, eventually, you’ll kick whatever stupid pop band wants to book the Garden on your day off the calendar and the game will be fantastic too.”   
  
“Don’t forget Casino Night,” Emma added, falling back on laughter and sarcasm so she could keep ignoring whatever was happening to every single inch of her body.

It was a lot.

And Killian was still moving against her neck.

“Of course Casino Night,” he agreed, making her squirm when he laughed against her skin. “Obviously.”  
  
He moved again, pulling her away from the door and Emma wasn’t entirely certain how they managed to stay on their feet when they were a mess of limbs and lips and bumping knees, but she eventually felt her legs hit up against the bed. She moved her hands up the front of his t-shirt, forcing herself to look up at him and Emma’s legs bent of their own volition, sinking onto the corner of the bed.

That was good. If she was sitting she couldn’t fall over.

He just smiled at her. Self-confident idiot.

“Where’s Roland?” Emma asked, a bit more breathless than she wanted to be.  
  
“With Robin and Regina.”   
  
“And Ruby?”   
  
“Probably in her room down the hall, determined not to walk in on this.”   
  
Emma laughed, smile inching across her face and Killian widened his eyes as he stepped in between her legs, nudging her forward until she was halfway up the bed. “And this is?” Emma prompted.

“Swan.”  
  
“It’s a genuine question. I just don’t want to get interrupted again.”   
  
“We won’t.”   
  
“You sound awfully certain.”

His hand worked its way back up her side, palm flat across her stomach and Emma twisted slightly underneath him. “I am,” Killian said simply, tugging his shirt off over his head and tossing it in the corner where Emma’s flats had landed at some point.

“And enthusiastic.”  
  
“That too.”   
  
“How are you so certain?” Emma asked, canting her hips up when Killian hovered over her. He made a noise in the back of his throat and she wasn’t certain if it was because of her or the question or the idea of being interrupted again.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Because I told them not to come down here. That’s why.”  
  
“What? Really?”   
  
“I mean I didn’t go into detail about what we’d be doing when we weren’t getting interrupted, but I think I managed to get my point across.”   
  
Emma blinked once and her mind raced back to the square outside the Staples Center and that _rumor_ and who could have seen them walking out of the Garden together and Killian pulled back again, staring at her with a kind of nervous energy that didn’t belong in a room where he wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore.

“Swan?” he asked. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Fine.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“That’s not even playing fair.”   
  
“Open book.”

She scrunched her nose and rolled her head back and forth on the vaguely pitiful pillow under her head, whining slightly when Killian rolled back to his side of the bed. “Just...thinking.”  
  
“About?”   
  
“He said there was a rumor going around the league.”   
  
“Who? Your PR guy?”   
  
Emma groaned at that and Killian smiled at the face she made, a mix between disgust and frustration that he could even bring himself to call Neal that. “He said there’d been talk about how you were _seeing someone_ for the last couple of months. Someone from the Islanders saw us leaving the Garden or something.”   
  
“And?”  
  
“And they’re blaming your skid on me.”   
  
“I’m out of the skid, Swan,” Killian argued. “ _The Post_ called it a ‘goal-scoring streak’ heading into the All-Star break. Goals in the last five games and into the top-five.”   
  
“I know your stat line.”   
  
“Then you’ll know the PR guy is a liar. It’s fine, love. You weren’t the reason for the skid and you won’t be the reason when I skid again. It’s just the game, that’s how things work. The only thing people will remember is when we win.”   
  
“There’s that confidence again.”

“Eh,” he sighed, propping his head up on his hand. Emma reached forward slowly, trailing her finger across the top of his left hand and she could hear his breath hitch when she traced over scars and the spot where that bruise had been a few weeks before. “Not always.”  
  
“Like on planes with turbulence?”

“Open book,” Killian repeated, leaning forward so quickly that Emma wasn’t even entirely certain he’d kissed her forehead.

“Why? I mean you made fun of Scarlet to no end for freaking out over the turbulence. What changed?”  
  
Killian took a deep breath and stared at a loose strand of string in the comforter underneath them. “Because I haven’t been to this weekend in years, always brushed off noms and came up with a reason not to go and Liam’s never seen me play in one of these games. At least not in person.”   
  
“Why’d you decide to come?”   
  
“Because you’re here,” he answered immediately and Emma knew her mouth dropped open again. She should probably stop being surprised by these kinds of things. “And you don’t need to be saved or rescued or any of those slightly antiquated ideas, but the idea of you going to LA this weekend alone kind of made me go cross-eyed. So I said I’d go and told Liam and El and they were thrilled and I spent the last month trying to ignore that nagging sense of not good enough in the back of my mind.”   
  
Emotions.

They were doing _emotions_ again and Emma didn’t do emotions. She did action. She did replanning events she’d spent the last four weeks organizing. And, at that moment, in the middle of a pillow-less bed in an expansive hotel room in the center of downtown Los Angeles, Emma Swan was going to kiss Killian Jones until he believed he was good enough for everyone – but especially for her.

Because no one had ever wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone.

He made _that_ noise and Emma closed her eyes, trying to burn the moment into her memory and her being and a slew of other overly emotional and sentimental adjectives and she gasped against his mouth when Killian started working against her jeans.

Her knee hit against his again and she should probably stop wearing t-shirts because they always seemed to end up threatening to choke her in moments like these and Emma tried to tug him forward, but there wasn’t anything to grab onto except belt loops.

It ripped in her hand or around her finger and Emma nearly dissolved into a fit of laughter right there in the middle of the bed.

Killian couldn’t even look appropriately scandalized, staring at the belt loop hanging over Emma’s finger with a sense of incredulity that just made her laugh all over again. “Eager, huh,” he mumbled.

“Oh, shut up,” Emma countered, flicking her finger against his bare chest. He winced dramatically, falling back on the bed with a soft thump that would have knocked off at least ten pillows in his bed back home.

Oh.

She called his apartment home. Not out loud or really any more than in passing thought while they were desperately trying to get each other’s clothes off, but it had happened and Emma didn’t move. She kissed him instead.

Or maybe he kissed her.

It didn’t really matter.

They got the clothes off eventually and Emma made some comment about the presumptive nature of his wallet – _several_ different squares of plastic pressed in between bills – and he’d rolled his eyes and countered with _uninterrupted, Swan_ before making sure that she couldn’t actually argue for quite some time.

She was warm and comfortable and the low hum of the air conditioner that they inexplicably had to use in the middle of February because it was LA and weather didn’t make any sense in LA, was practically lulling Emma to sleep in the background.

“Are you ok?” Killian asked softly and Emma’s eyes practically snapped open. She rolled her shoulders, smiling despite herself when he made a low noise in the back of his throat as soon as her skin hit his.

It was difficult to move with an arm draped tightly over her waist and Killian mumbled when the mattress shook as Emma flopped back over to her other side. “Why would you ask that?”

He couldn’t shrug, still laying on his side, but his eyes met hers and Emma realized almost immediately – and then she had to take a deep breath so she didn’t also immediately melt into the mattress.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said and the sincerity in his voice left little room for doubt. “You know that, right?”  
  
“Of course I do,” Emma said and there wasn’t a trace of disbelief in the words. She did. She believed him and in him and _because_ of him. And he’d come with her to Los Angeles.

Emma didn’t need a hero, but she might need Killian Jones just a little bit.

“I just….” he started, pressing his lips together to cut himself off and Emma lowered her eyebrows.

“What?”  
  
Killian took another deep breath and he blinked before he answered, fingers reaching out until they found the back of her wrist. “I just, well, I’ve waited a very long time for this.”   
  
“For?”   
  
“Swan,” he laughed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and he still looked more nervous than Emma could remember seeing him. “I am happy.”   
  
“Yeah? Good, that makes two of us.”

“Let me finish.” Emma nodded and tried to remember what oxygen was, blinking furiously when she realized her eyes had actually started to water. “I have waited a very long time for this,” Killian repeated and his voice seemed to work its way into every single inch of her, settling in the pit of her stomach like some flame that was trying to fight against the air conditioner in the corner of this hotel room.

“And I’ve never really been jealous of the rest of them or frustrated with the set-up. I understood why they did it and what they were all trying to do, but, uh, then you walked into the hallway outside the gym and everything changed and I was jealous of everything I didn’t have and everything I wanted and, you should know, Swan, I don’t care about anything anyone is saying in any front office, it’s not going to change anything. I’m not going to mess this up too.”

She didn’t move. She wasn’t entirely certain she was still breathing. And Killian still looked nervous, eyes darting down to that string again.

She was crying.

Emma could feel the tears, telltale signs of emotion and _sentiment_ and how absolutely _all in_ she was as soon as it started rolling down her cheeks.

Killian looked back up when Emma’s tried to move again, ancient hotel mattress creaking under her and he gaped when he realized what was happening. “No, no, Swan, God, don’t cry,” he said quickly, thumb brushing over the top of her cheek.

“You said the hallway,” Emma mumbled. It didn’t even sound like English.

“What?”  
  
“The hallway,” she repeated. “You said I walked into the hallway and everything changed. I didn’t meet you in the hallway.”

“Ah, well, I was in the gym when you met Victor.”  
  
“I thought that was you! When Ariel made you come over, I remembered…”

Emma snapped her mouth shut, jaw almost cracking with the force of it. Killian shifted again, hand falling back on her hip and the smirk felt a bit like cheating too. “What?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
She groaned, rolling her eyes and the smirk _intensified_ as if that was a thing smirks could actually do. “Your eyes are very blue. There. Whatever. I saw you move and I saw your hair and your blue eyes and I thought it was you when everyone was trying to set us up. It doesn’t matter.”

Killian stared at her, smirk becoming something a bit more genuine the longer he held her gaze. “You changed your outfit,” he said. “Between the hallway and the restaurant. You weren’t wearing that dress in the hallway.”  
  
“How could you possibly remember that?”   
  
“I wanted to know who you were.”   
  
“Why? To make sure no one would mess up your weird team hierarchy?”   
  
“No,” Killian said quickly and the smirk was gone and so was the smile and the only thing left was a seriousness that made Emma’s stomach clench. “No, you walked into the hallway and you didn’t look nervous, just kind of frustrated that Ruby was dragging you around making you shake hands with people. And I wanted to know your name.”

“Seems a little stalker-y,” Emma mumbled, but she was absolutely crying again.

“Romantic, love. Definitely romantic. I’m glad you’re here, Swan. I just….” He sighed again and they’d leapt back into _sentiment_ with all the force of jumping out of a plane.

“What?”  
  
“You, Emma,” he said and was certain she didn’t mishear the crack in his voice. “It’s you. Everything I was jealous of and everything I wanted and was absolutely certain I couldn’t have, it’s you.”   
  
He’d called her Emma again.

Cheater.

She didn’t say anything – didn’t tell him she loved him _more than anything_ or she was fairly positive he was _it_ too, in some sort of crazy, overwhelming way Emma was certain didn’t actually exist for her, or that she’d seen his absurdly blue eyes and everything in the entire world seemed to flip.

She kissed him instead and he kissed her back and they fell asleep twisted together, a pretzel of limbs that wasn’t particularly comfortable, but neither one of them could seem to bring themselves to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to LA and the drama and Neal is even worse than Hans. We're going to hang out here for a lil' while and Roland is going to keep being cute. As always, you guys are fantastic and I can't thank you enough for being fantastic and it's just...fantastic. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes this all better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	27. Chapter 27

He could get used to this.

No, scratch that. He was used to this. He was used to the feel of her next to him and the way she tugged the blankets over her shoulders, tight enough that Killian was half certain she was going to choke herself with them, and the way her feet were never quite warm, closer to blocks of ice that frequently hit up against the front of his shins when she pulled them up.

It didn’t make much sense, but Killian was used to it and could get even more used to it and maybe wanted to stay used to it for the rest of his life.

Except for the hair in his face. That was kind of driving him crazy – blonde streaks that didn’t just fan out over the pillow, but found their way across his cheek and against his nose and he’d lost track of the number of times he’d woken up sniffling slightly when Emma’s hair tickled across his face.

He reached out slowly, blinking blearily when he remembered where they were – a hotel in Los Angeles and All-Star weekend and it was skills day and they had fan events before and after skills and the Vankald-Jones family was slated to fly into LAX that morning. They were probably landing at that moment.

Killian took a deep breath, trying to make sure he didn’t actually move the bed and Emma shifted against his front, burrowing into the cocoon of blankets she’d created for herself during the middle of the night.

He gritted his teeth – far too aware of every inch of her skin against his – and he hadn’t meant to talk as much as he had the night before, every vaguely sentimental and overwhelming thought that had crossed his mind in the last few months, spilling out of his mouth in the middle of a hotel room in Los Angeles.

God, that air conditioner was loud. How had they fallen asleep?

Probably because they were so wrapped up in each other and how easy it had been to fall into _this_ and fall in love with her and that was even more sentiment.

He had to skate later. He had to bring Roland Locksley on the ice and probably pose for more photo ops and smile for more cameras and there’d probably be an absolutely ridiculous amount of interviews with an absolutely ridiculous amount of questions about his FA status, but Killian couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Emma was still asleep, feet pressed up against his shins – like _normal_ – and that was enough to make him certain he’d do it all again.

He’d agree to All-Star weekend and another jersey with a ‘C’ on the front of it and he’d even answer the questions, maybe even throw in that he was particularly interested in returning to New York. That would probably drive Regina insane.

He was definitely going to do it.

New York still hadn’t made a move, hadn’t offered anything and the Rangers front office appeared impervious to Regina’s glares at this point, seemingly learning a thing or two after handing out a max deal to Robin the year before.

And Regina kept promising it would be fine, but she couldn’t ever quite bring herself to look Killian in the eye and, well, that was enough to make falling asleep, even with Emma pressed against him, a bit harder than usual.

He needed to relax.

They still had weeks until the deadline, still had plenty of reason to think the Rangers would sign him to an extension and maybe it wouldn’t be a max, but he’d take a cut if it meant staying in New York. Right? Absolutely.

Who could say no to that?

Not the New York Rangers. He was a goddamn all-star. They were still in a Wild Card spot – better than even winning the Metro at this point, since the Atlantic was garbage and they could _absolutely_ beat the Canadiens in the first round, Killian was sure of it.

So, he had offers from other teams. So, a few months ago, that was exactly what he wanted. He was allowed to change his mind.

He could get what he wanted.

“It’ll be fine,” he muttered and he hadn’t meant to actually say the words out loud.

Emma moved again, hair shifting across the pillow when she sighed softly. “What did you say?” she asked, voice muffled when she tried to shift.

“Nothing, love,” Killian said quickly, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration when he realized he’d woken her up.

She grumbled and she’d gotten as good at reading him as El – maybe better, considering she wasn’t even looking at him – flipping onto her back and twisting her head to the side to level him with a very particular type of stare. “It’s early still,” Emma said, nodding towards the still dark windows outside. “Why are you awake?”  
  
“Force of habit.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“It’s fine, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, so you mentioned before.”   
  
“You asked what I said.”   
  
Emma shrugged, eyes still tinged with just a bit of _tired_ when she blinked again. “That was just being polite.”   
  
“Ah, that so?” Killian asked, gaze tracing across her face and she absolutely knew something was wrong. He didn’t say anything.

Selfish. And just a bit terrified.

Emma twisted her lips and she’d brought the blanket with her when she’d moved, the edges of it wrapped up in her fingers when Killian’s eyes traced down her wrists. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You woke up ridiculously early.”  
  
“I told you, Swan, that’s just force of habit. Early ice times and film and I think they’re supposed to be landing soon.”   
  
“You don’t know when your brother and El are landing?”   
  
“I’ve got some other things going on.”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows shot up her forehead and she grinned knowingly at him. “Things that would make you wake up earlier than you have to on a weekend that’s supposed to be fun?”

Caught.

Killian felt his eyes widened a bit and he huffed slightly, trying to pull the blanket out of the vice-like grip Emma had on it. It didn’t work. If anything, she tightened her fingers around it, staring at him intently as he tried to figure out how to explain any of this.

He’d tried the night before – had muttered _more than anything_ in her ear in the back seat of a town car and tried to remember every single fact he could about the city of Los Angeles, shoulders going almost painfully straight when he saw Emma’s eyes as soon as they’d stepped onto the sidewalk.

And he knew it was a possibility, the PR guy was probably going to show up at some point during the weekend, but he hadn’t thought it would be in the middle of on an event and she had enough to deal with already – Bobby Flay and a lack of Bobby Flay and even just being in Los Angeles to begin with.

So he’d tried to explain, to find the words that had been bouncing around his head since August, the way Emma Swan might have changed his entire worldview, and made New York the only thing he cared about simply by virtue of her being there, but then he’d opened his mouth and he couldn't quite do it.

He’d stumbled over the sentiment in a way he’d never stumbled over anything before, half sentences that didn’t quite make sense and proclamations that she was _it_ in the middle of a bed that had far too few pillows on it.

Killian was just glad he came to LA.

He’d be more happy if he knew he had some sort of on-ice future after they left LA and this weekend that was, apparently, supposed to be fun, but that was different concern all together. He needed to stop worrying.

His picture was on the side of Madison Square Garden.  

“Hey,” Emma said softly, tapping her finger against his shoulder and she’d finally let go of the blanket. “You went all glossy there for a second.”  
  
Killian blinked once, gaze zeroing in on her arm and the concerned look on her face and Emma just widened her eyes, waiting for an answer. “Fine, Swan,” he repeated and she didn’t look particularly convinced.

He wouldn’t have been either.

And he was somewhere in between just telling her, words threatening to tumble out of his mouth again, and just kissing her until she couldn’t see straight and he couldn’t overthink, so, naturally, his phone rang.

Emma laughed softly, teeth tracing across her lower lip. “Look who just landed,” she muttered, ignoring Killian’s groan when he rolled on his side to grab the ridiculously loud phone.

“What?” he snapped into the phone and Emma made a reproachful noise in the back of her throat.

“Weren’t you already awake?” Elsa asked on the other end, hardly reacting to whatever temper tantrum he was throwing in the middle of a hotel room.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not early, El.”  
  
She didn’t say anything for half a second and he could see the smile inching across her face as easily as if she was standing in front of him – which wasn’t something he was particularly interested in when Emma was still laying next to him, a distinct lack of clothing on either one of them. “Oh,” Elsa laughed. “Did I wake Emma up?”   
  
Liam made a scandalized noise in the background and _that_ made the twins start yelling and Killian could hear shouts about _jerseys_ and _Roland_ and _ice_ and he was smiling in spite of himself almost immediately.

Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be the worst. Maybe it would be fun. Maybe he should tell his girlfriend he was terrified of free agency in a way he’d never been terrified of anything in his entire life.

It was too early for that.

“Did you guys land, El?” Killian asked, brushing over the question completely. She grumbled at that, far too familiar with his brush-off techniques. “Or are you just endangering an entire plane full of Los Angeles-bound passengers?”  
  
“Ok, first of all, I’m not even convinced that’s a thing and second of all, I wouldn’t do that even if it was a thing and third of all, yes, we did land and we’re getting our bags and going to check into the hotel.”   
  
“Was this just to let me know that? Because I appreciate it, but it is kind of early.”   
  
“You’ve mentioned that several times now, KJ. We just need to know where to go later.”   
  
“I told Liam where the thing was days ago.”   
  
“And in that time we’ve had several mini crises to deal with and four-year-olds to pack for who were only interested in bringing team-branded merchandise and Liam forgot. No, no, don’t click your tongue, I know you want to and I’m not interested. Just tell me where to go.”   
  
He did his best not to laugh – he really did – but he couldn’t quite turn it into a convincing cough or anything that sounded except the scoff it absolutely was and both Elsa and Emma groaned at the same time.

Emma tapped on his shoulder again, holding out her hand expectantly. “What?” Killian asked.

“Gimme the phone, you’re all grumpy.”  
  
“Grumpy?”   
  
“The phone.”   
  
Killian sighed, but he could hear Elsa’s agreement in the background and now Liam was the one trying to hide his laughter. He needed to shoot at something. He’d probably win several skills competitions fueled on frustration alone at this point.

Emma moved her fingers again, twisting her wrist and he only put the phone in her hand when the laces around her wrist shook slightly. “Hey, Elsa,” she said, hardly sounding as if she’d only just woken up a few minutes before because he’d been talking to himself.

“Yeah,” Emma continued, answering a question Killian couldn’t actually hear. “No, you can definitely bring them. I mean, it’s a chain, they’ll have burgers and stuff. It’s probably easier if you walk, actually.”

She nodded again when Elsa asked another question and Killian knew he was staring, eyes tracing over her face and the smile there and the way she kept darting her gaze towards him, that certainty that he wasn’t telling her something painfully obvious every time Emma looked his direction.

“Come at three,” Emma said, words mumbled a bit when she yawned. It was very early. “No, Elsa, I promise it’s fine. There’s a whole room in the back and I’ve got to be there early anyway. They’re encouraged to wear team-branded.”

Elsa said something else and then Liam’s voice was on the phone and Emma was still smiling, a fact that was probably going to spark a whole slew of brand-new sentimental thoughts as well.

“Alright,” Killian muttered, tugging the phone away from Emma’s ear. She glared at him when he did it, but he kissed the side of her cheek quickly and Liam was still talking, unaware that no one was really listening to him.

“Liam,” he interrupted and Emma was sitting up now, blankets pooled around her waist in a way that made him want to do anything except be on the phone with a clearly overwhelmed older brother. Liam, however, didn’t realize – still talking and asking questions and location of the hotel in relation to the restaurant the pre-skills fan event was at.

“It’s across the street right?” Liam asked. Killian wasn’t sure who he was talking to, sounding as if he wasn’t actually talking into the phone. He was absolutely asking Elsa and Killian could hear her soft grunt in reply, the sounds of the LAX baggage claim echoing in his ear as well.

“God, Liam, your wife is five months pregnant, get your own goddamn luggage,” Killian muttered.

“Grumpy,” Emma whispered under her breath, gasping slightly when Killian’s arm snaked around her waist, tugging her back down against his side. “You know we have to get out of bed eventually, I do have two events to run.”  
  
“A fact I’m painfully aware of, love.”   
  
“Painfully?”   
  
Killian made a significant face, moving his shoulder up as if that proved something and Liam was still grumbling on the other end of the phone. “If we’re going to keep having this conversation,” Liam hissed, “we should probably at least try talking to each other during it.”

“That was your fault,” Killian shot back. “You’re the one who picked the most inopportune time to call.”  
  
“You couldn’t possibly be busy right now.”   
  
“Oh my God, I’m not having this conversation.” Emma laughed, head pushed against the curve of his shoulder and that was _hardly_ playing fair. This phone call needed to end.

“Yeah, well, we needed to know where to go.”  
  
“And look at that, now you do.”   
  
“Why are you being an ass?” Liam asked, the sound of a very clearly frustrated Elsa almost perfectly audible over the hum of an international airport in the background. “He is, Elsa! It’s not even that early, he was definitely already up!”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes and Emma was hysterical, body shaking against his as she squeezed her arm around him. “You are not playing fair at all, Swan,” he mumbled.

“Will you pay attention for two seconds,” Liam snapped. The sounds had changed now – they were definitely outside now, which seemed like a step in the right direction.

“Aye aye, captain,” Killian said, another force of habit and Liam didn’t say anything for several hours, at least.

Or at it felt like several hours. Emma stopped laughing, pulling her head up to stare at him questioningly and Killian made a face.

It was fine.

It was all going to be fine. He wasn’t _grumpy_ – he was just worried.

And taking it out on everybody else. He probably should have gone back to sleep.

“Three o’clock?” Liam asked, slamming a door shut behind him. “And we can walk from the hotel?”  
  
“Yes and yes,” Killian answered. “Although I don’t know why we’re still having this conversation if Swan already told El both of those things two seconds before.”   
  
“Did you miss the part where we had to stave off several pre-weekend crises?”

He had. He’d only been kind of half listening. Jerk. “Apparently,” Killian muttered.

“Three o’clock, little brother. We’ll be the ones in a ridiculous amount of team-branded.”  
  
And he didn’t even get the chance to say _younger brother_ before Liam started laughing and hung up the phone.

That seemed kind of fitting.

Emma didn’t say anything – head back on his shoulder and fingers tracing along his side – and it all felt a bit like a balancing act, something about skates and thin pieces of metal or that stick-handling competition he’d have to take part in later that night.

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian said, sighing slightly when he couldn’t come up with something else to promise.

“So I’ve heard,” Emma mumbled and he jerked up slightly when her lips hit along his collarbone. “You’re very slow on the uptake, you know.”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“I mean you have no concept of date when it doesn’t dictate what’s happening on the ice.” Emma pulled her head up, staring at him meaningfully and he still didn’t understand what was going on. “And,” she continued, tapping one finger against his chest. “You’re not usually this...what was that word you used for me before? Prickly. You’re not usually this prickly in the morning.”   
  
“Maybe I’m just avoiding getting out of this bed.”

One side of her mouth quirked up and, well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. He didn’t want to get out of bed and he would have been content if Emma’s fingers stayed on his skin for the rest of time. He should probably tell her that too.

And he should probably make a list of all the things he needed to do.

“You’ve got photo ops,” Emma muttered, but she’d ducked her head and her lips were back on his skin and just behind his ear and tracing along his neck and he’d lost all train of thought that wasn’t explicitly focused on her.

“It’s still early, Swan,” he argued. His hand found her hips, gripping tightly around her until she was half laying on top of him.

“This internal alarm clock of yours is kind of weird, you know.”  
  
“Helpful.”   
  
“How you figure?”   
  
“Well,” Killian said slowly, turning on her and Emma was on her back and he’d probably think about that sound she made the entire time he was on the ice that night. “It does leave us with some previously unscheduled free time.”

“You think so, Cap?”

“Swan.”  
  
She smiled at him and the look shot straight to his core and several other places and he kissed her when the first knock came. “Jesus Christ,” Killian mumbled and even Emma groaned slightly, shaking her head as she tried to keep kissing him.

“No, no, just ignore it, maybe they’ll go away, maybe it’s housekeeping or something.”  
  
“There’s a do not disturb sign hanging on the door, it’s not housekeeping.”   
  
“Look who was efficient last night. I didn’t even notice you do that last night.”   
  
“Go ahead and tell me how impressed you are, love.”   
  
“That ego doesn’t need any more help from me. You’ve got eight interviews to do later today and two different fan events that’ll have people fawning all over you. I am, but an afterthought on any of that.”   
  
He knew she was joking, could see the flash in her eyes that was a signal of the sarcasm and the attempts at humor and none of it really mattered, because somewhere between the hallway and the gym and that moment in the middle of a king-sized bed in a Los Angeles hotel room, he’d taken it upon himself to make sure Emma Swan never felt like an afterthought of anything.

 _Tell her the truth_.  _There’s not anything to tell. You’re staying in New York. It’ll be fine._

“Oh, serious face,” Emma muttered, fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck. The knock came again. “C’mon, you know I was joking.”  
  
“I do,” Killian said quickly, nodding for good measure.

Emma huffed and pushed against his shoulders – he didn’t move. That just made her huff again, rocking her head back and forth on the pillow. “What aren’t you telling me? For real. You’re doing that thing with your face.”

“That thing with my face?”  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
The knock came again, but it sounded a bit more nervous, as if the person on the other side suddenly realized they were interrupting a conversation and a lack of clothes and there was, suddenly, another set of footsteps in the hallway.

Roland. It had been Roland.

“Sorry, sorry,” Robin shouted towards the still-closed door. “We’re going back to our hallway now and Rol’s not going to try and break into other hotel rooms, right?”  
  
“Right,” Roland sighed. Emma hadn’t stopped staring at Killian.

“We’re leaving now,” Robin continued, doing a horrible job of actually doing that. “We’ll, uh, we’ll see you guys later. As you were. Or whatever.”  
  
Neither one of them moved – even after Robin’s steps had retreated and he must have actually _carried_ Roland away from the door “I’m glad you’re here,” Emma whispered and her voice was so soft, Killian wasn’t entirely sure he heard it.

“What?”

She grimaced, squeezing one eye shut and he tried to rest his weight on his forearms so he didn’t actually crush her. “I didn’t say anything last night and I know I’ve got a habit of doing that, not saying things and then just blurting things out and, I, well, I’m glad you’re here. That’s all.”  
  
Killian shook his head slowly, disbelief sinking through him. “No, Swan,” he countered. “Not all. That’s...everything.”   
  
“Sap.”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“You’re going to have to answer an absurd amount of contract questions, you know,” Emma said suddenly, as if the realization had only just dawned on her.

“That’s alright.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Sure. I knew that going in.”   
  
“Did you? What are you going to say?”   
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat. “Probably wing it. That’s what I normally do. It drives Gina absolutely crazy.”   
  
“Which is probably half the reason you do it, right?” Emma asked, hand still in his hair. Her thumb kept moving up and down the line of his spine. Killian just shrugged – they were back on that blade or however the metaphor had been working. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” she pressed, thumb tapping out an impatient rhythm now. “It’s not like they won’t resign you. You’re on the side of the Garden!”   
  
And for the first time since he’d opened his eyes that morning, Killian actually felt like he was breathing again, certain he could linger in the confidence in Emma’s voice for the entire weekend.

“We’ll see, love,” Killian said and Emma’s eyes dimmed slightly. “That’s why I pay Regina an exorbitant amount of money.”  
  
“They will,” Emma repeated. She twisted underneath him, pulling herself back to her side of the enormous bed and Killian bit back the urge to sigh at the movement. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

“Ok.”  
  
“That was also an invitation.”   
  
He moved quicker than he could remember ever moving, blankets and worries and free agent deals forgotten as soon as he saw the smile on Emma’s face.

* * *

“You’re lurking,” Liam muttered, sinking down next to him at the end of the bar. He had a drink in his hand and an infuriatingly self-satisfied look on his face and Killian didn’t even try and stop himself from groaning.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian argued.  
  
“What’s going on with you?”   
  
“Same answer.”   
  
Liam made a noise in the back of his throat – matching up almost perfectly with the look on his face – and Killian pulled his eyes away from his frustratingly well-informed older brother to stare across the restaurant at Emma, fully in her element with a smile on her face and his All-Star jersey on.

There were more fans here than there’d been in the square and, thankfully, no sudden appearance from Kings PR directors threatening to absolutely destroy the entire weekend. Mulan was taking pictures and there was a camera there, something about filming it for the website and Roland had done his best to steal most of the spotlight, directing the twins in some sort of overcomplicated cheer.

The fans kept clapping and _ooohing_ and Killian was sitting in the corner of the bar, the same drink he’d ordered when he’d walked in an hour ago sitting almost untouched in front of him.

“Seriously,” Liam sighed, kicking at Killian’s outstretched leg. “You haven’t even asked what the crisis was. That’s not you at all.”

Shit. He hadn’t.

He’d been too preoccupied with the bed and the omissions that weren’t really lies, but might be as bad as lies and Killian’s head snapped up when the door to the restaurant swung open again, the small army of fans gasping when they realized who it was.

“Graham,” Emma yelled, the smile on her face growing as she practically sprinted towards him. He was wearing Vancouver gear, but he caught her when she all but leapt towards him, arms wrapping around her waist tightly.

Killian could feel Liam’s gaze on him, knew he was biting his lip and his eyes had narrowed slightly. Graham said something, his own smile taking up three quarters of his face, and Killian took a swig of his drink.

“Emma knows Graham Humbert?” Liam asked, kicking at Killian’s foot again.

“She started in Vancouver,” he answered. “Before she came to LA.”  
  
“Wait, wait, she worked here?”   
  
“Did you not know that?”   
  
“No, because you’re trying to keep this relationship a secret.”   
  
“I’m not,” Killian sighed and Liam made a disbelieving noise that sounded a bit like a _guffaw._ “It’s just…”   
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m not going to mess this up.”   
  
Liam almost looked surprised at that, holding his arm up out of instinct as soon as Elsa moved towards him. She settled against his side, hands resting on her stomach and _she_ didn’t look surprised. She looked...elated.

“Good,” Elsa said. “And you’re not, by the way.”

“Did you know Emma worked in LA?” Liam asked.

“Wait, what? Really?” She stared at Killian and he’d almost finished the drink at this point. “You won’t even be able to stay upright later,” Elsa pointed out, tapping her nail against the almost empty glass critically.

“I’ll be fine,” Killian promised. He kept using that word. He needed another word.

“Yuh huh,” Elsa mumbled.

“You know,” Liam said pointedly, glancing at Elsa before he continued. “I don’t think he’s told Emma the entire truth.”  
  
“You know, I think you might be right.”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes, not looking forward to the intervention or the lecture he was just a few moments away from. “An omission,” he said, arguing with himself as much as he was the two determined individuals standing in front of him with skeptical looks on their faces. “And neither one of you has any tact at all. You’re practically shouting all of this in the middle of a fan event.”   
  
“No one is shouting anything, KJ,” Elsa muttered, reaching her hand out to rest against the jersey he’d been forced into.

“But, like, why haven’t you told her?” Liam continued and even Elsa rolled her eyes at that.

“It’s not like she had some great experience working in LA,” Killian reasoned. “There’s a reason she came to New York this year and it timed up pretty well with Gold buying the Kings and her ex-boyfriend taking her job.”  
  
Liam let out a low whistle and Elsa’s grip on his wrist tightened a fraction of an inch. They both opened their mouths at the same time – probably some poor attempt at supportive and every reason Killian had already come up with for why he should just _tell Emma_ – but neither one of them got a chance.

“Hey,” Emma said brightly, Graham Humbert on her side and there was a trail of fans behind both of them, eyes trained on the Canucks winger. “You got a minute?”  
  
“Two, in fact, Swan,” Killian answered. He pulled his hand away from Elsa’s, refusing to acknowledge whatever she was doing with her face and held out his hand towards Humbert. “Killian,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you when I’m not trying to check you.”   
  
Humbert laughed and Emma’s eyes kept darting in between them, tongue flicking out over lower lip in a way that was almost completely distracting. “Ah, there’s a good reason for the checking,” Humbert said. “I heard you’re front-runner for the Hart.”   
  
“He is,” Emma said quickly, stepping into his space almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Killian felt his eyes widen, dimly aware of the look Liam shot Elsa’s direction. It was far too crowded in this restaurant.

Humbert smiled, lips quirking up and he hummed in the back of his throat. “You must be Liam Jones,” he continued, glancing at the other half of the Jones brothers perched in front of the bar. “I remember you guys winning that national title, I think we talked about that set-up in Vancouver for a month after. Hell of a pass.”  
  
“Thanks,” Liam said and Killian’s stomach clenched. He glanced cautiously at Elsa and her hand had fallen back on her stomach, fingers tapping out a quick rhythm that seemed to counter the almost calm look on her face.

Emma realized what was going on immediately, fingers lacing through Killian’s without a word and Graham didn’t even bat an eyelash at that. “How was your flight?’ she asked, directing her question at both Liam and Elsa.

“Better once the twins fell asleep,” Elsa admitted. “And once she stopped moving.”  
  
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open and Killian was more worried about staying upright in that moment than he was whenever he eventually got on the ice. “Well, there went that surprise,” Liam muttered, but he was smiling. “We were going to tell you at some point this weekend. That was the crisis, by the way.”   
  
“Is everything ok?” Killian asked, tightening his hand around Emma’s out of instinct.

“It’s fine, KJ,” Elsa promised. “Just there was a lot of kicking and a, frankly, ridiculous amount of heartburn and we went to the doctor and got an ultrasound and, well, it’s a girl.”

“Surprise,” Liam added, barely even moving when Killian pulled Elsa into his arms. Or arm. He hadn’t actually let go of Emma’s hand.

And he almost felt bad for Graham Humbert, pulled into this weird, family moment in the corner of some chain restaurant a few blocks away from the Staples Center, but the winger didn’t seem too put off by it – smile widening even more when he saw the look on Emma’s face.

Her free hand was pressed against her mouth, smile obvious even behind her fingers and she kept blinking. Killian let go of Elsa, arm wrapping around Emma’s shoulders and his lips found the top of her hair almost immediately.

“Banana’s going to be mad she missed another moment,” Killian pointed out and Liam shrugged.   
  
“She and Kristoff went to some sort of mountain retreat. I shudder to think what Anna is actually doing this weekend.”   
  
“Oh, God, enough”   
  
“You brought it up!”   
  
“Will both of you quit it?” Elsa sighed, shaking her head in frustration. “Jeez. Children, both of you.”   
  
“We should be celebrating shouldn’t, we?” Emma asked. “Right? Like not champagne, obviously, but there’s got to be something you can drink here.”   
  
“Soda has bubbles.”   
  
“No caffeine, though,” Liam warned and Elsa rolled her eyes.

“Soda it is,” Emma agreed, nodding towards one of the bartenders a few feet away from them. The glasses were filled with Sprite, because Liam was nothing if consistently frustrating, and Emma took a deep breath when she held up her drink. “To Liam and Elsa and…”

Elsa was crying, tears falling down her face quicker than she could brush them away because she didn’t actually have a free hand and something in the back of Killian’s mind realized what was going to happen before it actually did. “Lizzie,” she mumbled, staring at her shoes and Killian didn’t move.

Liam was staring at him. Emma was staring at him. Graham Humbert was playing with the laces of his Canucks jersey.

“Lizzie,” Killian repeated slowly, like he was testing out the name on his tongue. Elsa glanced up, cheeks still tear-stained and nodded slowly. “I like it.”  
  
“Well, you didn’t really have much of a choice,” Liam added quickly, cutting himself off when Elsa elbowed him in the side.

“We just thought…” Elsa started.

“Yeah, I know,” Killian said. “She’ll probably be the first female hockey player in the league.”  
  
“They have a women’s league now, KJ.”   
  
“Well, then she can be captain of that one too. She’ll play in both leagues.”   
  
“You’ve already decided that?”   
  
“Absolutely.” Elsa laughed, but it sounded a bit like an exhale and she nodded. “To Lizzie,” Killian said and all five of them clinked glasses before they downed the soda.

They stayed for another hour – and toasted the soon-to-be-born Lizzie Vankald-Jones several times with a variety of different sodas – and it was better than the fine Killian kept promising himself it would be.

It was happy and hopeful and the ridiculous pomp of a skills competition that required him to skate as fast as he possibly could didn’t seem quite as ridiculous – until there was a microphone in his face and a camera light in his eyes and Killian had to squint to make out the reporters standing a few in front of him.

“What about free agency?”  
  
“Are you determined to stay in New York?”   
  
“We heard the Stars expressed some interest.”   
  
And then the one he hadn’t been expecting – a voice he didn’t know and a face he didn’t recognize and the question nearly made him laugh it was _that_ ridiculous. “Killian, is there any truth to the rumor you’ll be heading out here permanently?”   
  
“What?” he gaped, running a hand through his hair before he could stop himself. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

Regina would kill him when she heard that soundbite. He hoped no one ever heard that soundbite. The reporter shrugged, brushing her hair off her shoulders and staring at him with a stare that made him twist his eyebrows in confusion.

The woman smiled just a bit wider and the lights got a bit brighter – or maybe he was just losing his mind. “Los Angeles,” she repeated, glancing around her as if she were introducing him to the city as a whole. “There’s been a report you’re heading here at the deadline. Care to comment.”  
  
“No.”   
  
“No to the comment or no to the rumor?”   
  
“No,” Killian repeated and the reporter stared at him a bit ruefully. “Now, if you guys will excuse me, I’ve got to go skate fast and help make sure some pretty adorable kid doesn’t fall over on the ice.”   
  
Roland didn’t fall over – he skated better than Killian and Robin combined and the two-man jersey was so well-made Killian was certain Regina would lord that fact over him for the rest of his life and then probably a few days after, just  to make sure he never forgot how much it cost.

He laughed when Humbert tried to guard against him, twisting around backwards to try and block his shot and if this was All-Star weekend, then, maybe, this wasn’t that bad.

“You’re not even trying, Hook,” Roland shouted, crashing into the boards and Killian was certain his spot on the Rangers first line was safe for now. “You can go so much faster than that.”  
  
“That so?” Humbert asked, stopping next to Roland and shooting a questioning glance over the six-year-old’s head.

“Seems a little early in the relationship to be falling into sarcasm, doesn’t it?” Killian questioned. He tugged Roland closer to his side, ignoring whatever noise the kid was making in the back of his throat. “And I can’t show all my cards in the first round, Rol.”

“Ah, but I almost feel as if I know you,” Humbert laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma smile that much in one afternoon.”

Killian had expected the conversation – had been _almost_ mentally prepared for it as soon as he saw the Canucks jersey walk into the bar that afternoon, but he hadn’t really anticipated it in between speed drills as he tried to catch his breath.

God, he was old.

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of the point,” Killian muttered. Humbert made some sort of noise that might have been agreement or might have been support, undeterred by Roland’s exclamations that they were _about to start again._

Humbert nodded thoughtfully, glancing at Killian out of the corner of his eye. “You’re not going to Los Angeles are you?”  
  
“Whoever came up with that rumor lied.”   
  
“Emma won’t have time to see that spot, especially since it’s local, but if you’re even thinking about going to Los Angeles I might actually take a misconduct in this All-Star game.”   
  
Killian scoffed, digging the toe of his skate into the ice. “I’m not going to Los Angeles. You can ask Regina about it if you want.”   
“I have no idea who that is. I’m not actually on this team.”   
  
Point to him.

“Hook,” Roland cried, hitting against Killian’s leg and he didn’t understand why he had to wear full pads if he wasn’t actually going to hit anyone. Or get brutally cross-checked by Graham Humbert, all-star winger. “You’ve got to go. Skate fast.”

“Thanks for the tip, mate,” Killian mumbled and he couldn’t actually mess up Roland’s when there was a league-mandated helmet on his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Humbert was still staring at him, something that looked like amusement flashing in his eyes as he followed Killian towards the other side of the ice.

“I realize it’s not really my place you know,” Humbert muttered, tapping his stick thoughtfully on the ice.

“What isn’t?” Killian asked and he kind of dreaded the answer.

“You know she thinks she doesn’t have anyone in her corner. Emma, that is. She thinks she’s on some sort of metaphorical island of emotion or something. And she’d absolutely punch me in the face if she heard me say something like that.”  
  
Killian laughed, eyes darting up when the first skater started sprinting down towards the opposite blue line. Slow. Way too slow.

He was absolutely going to win.

There was a deeper meaning in there somewhere. Killian refused to acknowledge that, however, turning, instead, to stare right back at Humbert.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “She would. And Swan’s not nearly as alone as she seems to think she is. That’s a work in progress.”  
  
“You sound very determined.”   
  
“You’ll find I’m rather determined when it comes to things I want.”   
  
“And that’s what you want?” Humbert continued, gaze moving only slightly when another whistle sounded and another skater moved. “For Emma to know she’s not on some sort of emotional island?”   
  
“Have I not made that clear?”   
  
“You tell me.”   
  
“Yes,” Killian said pointedly. “And truth be told, I’m not so concerned about whatever you think you’ll be able to do to me on the ice.”   
  
“What are you concerned with?”

“Mary Margaret.”  
  
Humbert whistled – the sound barely audible over the scrape of skates and actual whistles and a surprising amount of fans in the Staples Center, most of them decked out in red and blue and some of them were shouting his name. Roland Locksley was absolutely shouting his name. A PA announcer called out his name and Humbert nodded slowly at him as Killian pushed forward towards the crease.

“Yeah,” Humbert said, sounding appropriately intimidated by the teacher on the other side of the country. “She wouldn’t just check you, she’d probably kill you and make it look like an accident. Those police connections make things like that easy.”

Killian grimaced – far too aware that Mary Margaret would do _exactly_ that – before trying to turn that determination to _prove something_ into speed as soon as the whistle sounded and Roland shouted his name again.

He won.

And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d skated that fast – including the breakaway goal earlier that season or when he’d been desperately trying to break out of the skid that absolutely wasn’t Emma’s fault. It all felt a bit instinctual, skates moving and legs moving and Killian was hardly out of breath by the time he found himself behind the opposite net on the other side of the ice.

He could still hear Roland yelling.

The rest of the night didn’t really matter, there were accuracy shots and the relay and some sort of obstacle course that Robin might have won if Killian was actually paying attention to anything – and he was absolutely shirking whatever duties he had as captain of the Metro, but Killian had only really half-listened to the rules when they’d been explained to him that afternoon.

There were more cameras – Robin had been mic’ed up – and more photo ops, posing together in front of lockers and with players who, just a few minutes before, had promised to check Killian particularly hard if he dared mess up things with his girlfriend.

The Rangers contingent made its way into the locker room no less than ten minutes after they’d gotten off the ice – even _more_ cameras and Ruby demanding something about post-game with the beat writers.

“It’s not a game, Rubes,” Robin pointed out, bending over to unlace his skates. Killian hadn’t even bothered sitting down, far too familiar with Ruby Lucas and her post- _whatever_ media demands. They were both going to talk – whether they wanted to or not.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ruby argued, tugging a still-rambunctious Roland against her side. “We’ve got people here and they flew to Los Angeles and you guys are going to give quotes. Also, if you could actually pretend to pay attention, Cap, that’d be super awesome.”  
  
Killian snapped his head up, eyes wide with something he hoped looked like innocence. He knew it didn’t work, knew his attention had been completely consumed by the post-fan event he needed to get to if only to see his girlfriend and make sure _she_ hadn’t seen some local Los Angeles news spot about his free agency status.

“I’m definitely paying attention,” Killian said, the lie falling out of his mouth with practiced ease and even Robin scoffed under his breath.

“One statement, one promise that you’re having a super fun time and you love Los Angeles a super amount and then you can get back to that restaurant and everything will be disgustingly romantic,” Ruby muttered. She arched one eyebrow and Roland huffed slightly when she moved him back towards the door.

Killian did everything Ruby told him to – _demanded_ him to – and there were cheers when they walked back into the restaurant, a sea of blue and _Let’s go Rangers_ chants greeting him as soon as he walked through the door.

And it would have been almost endearing, would have made him smile and nod and probably pose for several dozen pictures if Killian still weren’t entirely paying attention. Because he’d done what Ruby had said, stood in front of another slew of reporters and answered questions and swore up and down he was having a super fun time in Los Angeles when he saw someone move in the corner of the press room – a suit and a cane and a face he’d only ever been vaguely aware of in the last five and a half years.

Robert Gold didn’t look quite as intimidating in person as he did in the vaguely absurd picture Killian had created in his head – some sort of crocodile, amphibian monstrosity that might have actually had scales and a tail in one version.

He was old and he had a limp and gray hair that must have been buzzed it was so short. He was wearing a suit and a there was an actual chain going across the vest under his jacket because he was probably the type of person who had a pocket watch.

And he didn’t say anything, didn’t stand in the back corner of the press room for any longer than a few moments, but his eyes had landed on Killian and it almost felt like all the air got sucked out of the room.

It had kind of stolen some of the excitement from the force post-game presser that wasn’t actually a post-game presser and Emma had noticed almost immediately.

Killian nodded towards a group of fans that were shouting something at him, doing his best to smile honestly and he could see Emma weaving her way towards him, eyebrows pulled low and head tilted in the question she hadn’t actually asked yet.

_Tell her._

“Hey,” she said, hand falling on the front of the team-branded sweatshirt he’d tugged on when Ruby had tossed it his direction after post. “You were other levels of fast tonight.”  
  
“You’ve been talking to Roland.”   
  
“Nah, I just have eyes. And David might have sent a string of ridiculous text messages detailing all the reasons you winning that particular skills competition were a sure sign that we were going to win the Cup this season.”   
  
And, just like that, he forgot about Gold. He forgot about free agency and a distinct lack of moves from the New York Rangers front office and anything that wasn’t the way his heart seemed to stutter in his chest when Emma Swan used the word _we._

He kissed her before he could come up with any kind of response and she was smiling when he moved – like she was waiting for it.

“I have a theory,” Emma muttered, glancing up at him when the door swung open again and even more fans piled into the restaurant. She was absurdly good at her job.

“And that is?”  
  
“Why you skated so fast.”   
  
“Maybe I was just trying to impress you,” Killian suggested and it wasn’t a complete lie.

Emma laughed, smile widening a bit, but she shook her head.

“Can you be serious for, like, two seconds? I’m trying to ask you a question.”  
  
“I thought it was a theory.”   
  
“Jones.” Killian nodded solemnly and Emma rolled her eyes, finger looping through the front of his belt. “You freaked out when Liam and El told you what they were going to name the soon-to-be mini Jones-Vankald.”   
  
“That’s not true.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
Killian sighed. “Alright, well, maybe a little bit. What’s your theory then, Swan?”   
  
“That was your mom’s name wasn’t it?” Emma asked, voice going soft and her finger tightened when his eyes widened out of instinct.

_Tell her. Tell her everything. Tell her you’d take a pay cut to stay in New York. With her. Use the word ‘we’ several times in succession._

He didn’t say any of that. He just stared at her in awe and Emma’s smile was nervous at best and, well, he had gotten used to this.

He had gotten used to her.

“I love you,” Killian said, feeling a bit like he was shouting the words at her. He might have been. There were a lot of fans in this restaurant. Or bar? It was a bar.

Emma blinked once, lower lip stuck out a bit and the smile didn’t look quite as cautious anymore. “So I’m going to go ahead and assume that means I was right then? And also I love you too.”  
  
“Solid save there at the end, love,” Killian laughed, hand moving instinctively down when Roland collided with his thigh.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Roland?” Emma asked, reaching forward to tug on the laces of his customized jersey.

He just shook his head. “It’s All-Star weekend, Emma,” he explained slowly, as if that were the only explanation there could have been for being up at eleven o’clock at night.

“Oh, obviously.”  
  
“And,” Roland continued, “dad said that I could stay with him and Hook tonight.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly, but her smile didn’t waver when she crouched in front of Roland. “That so? And what are you guys going to do?”   
  
“We’re going to watch film and probably make fun of the Pens and practice stick-handling,” Roland answered quickly, voice picking up with each facet of the schedule.

“And sleep,” Killian added, ignoring Roland’s soft gasp at even the suggestion.

“You’re no fun at all,” Emma accused.

“It is the night before a game, Swan. There are rules we’re supposed to be sticking to.”

“Seems a bit like an excuse.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Maybe I’m not particularly interested in this plan.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“The one where I’m not with you? No.”   
  
Roland made some sort of six-year-old noise and Emma bit her lip lightly. “Smooth,” she muttered. Roland didn’t seem very impressed.

“Well there was some sort of compliment about skating quickly and being dominant on the ice and absolutely the most impressive player out here.”  
  
“I seem to have missed that part. I only remember telling you you skated fast.”   
  
“There was an undercurrent of compliment there.”’

Emma shook her head, laughing under her breath and Roland had disappeared at some point – Killian felt guilty for all of half a second before remembering Emma was still standing in front of him and had, just recently, used the word we.

And knew why he’d freaked out about soon-to-be Lizzie Vankald-Jones.

“You were right you know,” Killian added, taking a step forward until his left hand landed on her hip.

“That happens more often than not,” Emma said. “About what?”  
  
“It is my mom’s name. Or was. I’m not sure what tense we’re supposed to use.”

Her shoulders sagged just a bit and it felt like she was exhaling, smile taking on a tinge of sadness when she looked up at him. “Yeah, I kind of figured. Are you ok?”  
  
“With them using that name?” Emma nodded. “It’s not my kid, so it’s not really my call, but, yeah, I think I am. It seems right. And she’s totally going to dominate both hockey leagues. My mom probably would have appreciated that.”

She kissed him that time and at some point they should probably stop using kissing as some sort of emotional response, but in the middle of that bar with several dozen uniform-wearing fans, Killian didn’t care about anything except the vague idea of a _we_ with Emma.

“I love you,” Emma said again. “A lot.”  
  
“I love you too, Swan.”

And he’d do whatever he had to in order to stay in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst. It's looming. And the Kings entire organization continues to be the worst. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It means the world. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	28. Chapter 28

There was a list somewhere.

She’d written it down. She just couldn’t remember where it was. Or everything that was on it.

There were a lot of things on it.

Emma pulled her lip between her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember everything that was on the list – All-Star game and post All-Star event and getting Killian and Robin to sign several different All-Star branded items so they could auction _those_ off at Casino Night and she had to get to the restaurant before the game to make sure that everything would run smoothly before the final event of the weekend and they didn’t even get to stay another night in LA because the whole Rangers contingent had to be on the red eye back to New York so they could get ready for the post-weekend roadtrip.

Killian and Robin were supposed to take a different flight because it might be the most hectic day in the history of days, but the New York Rangers were actually kind of cheap and there was no point flying two All-Stars across the country only to have them get on the team plane back to western Canada.

The list was sitting on the windowsill of her hotel room.

Emma let out a small whoop of excitement, grabbing the sheet of hotel-provided paper and everything she’d just remembered was on it – plus one.

Zelena was supposed to call that morning.

In fact, Zelena was supposed to call in five minutes. To talk about something – the text message from Merida announcing Zelena’s intentions hadn’t been very specific. And that might have been why Emma was so scatterbrained, something that felt a bit like dread creeping up in the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach and she hadn’t really slept the night before, bed far too big and far too empty to be anything except decidedly uncomfortable.

She tried not to think about that.

Emma clicked her tongue, shifting her weight back and forth on her feet and, well, she could stage a phone call with Zelena while getting hot chocolate from the breakfast cart in the hotel lobby.

Absolutely.

She was a professional.

She could multi-task.

She slid her feet into her heels and her arms into her blazer and stuffed the list into the back pocket of her pants, stepping out the door of her hotel room with something that she hoped vaguely resembled confidence.

The lobby was packed – front-office personnel and hockey players and a whole table of public relations people that Emma knew by face and team affiliation, all of them with phones pressed up to their ears and matching looks of _stressed out_ on their face.

The _break_ in All-Star break, was, apparently, a very big lie.

And her phone went off before Emma had even taken a step towards the coffee cart, not even certain there _was_ hot chocolate there.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, backing up into one of the slightly quieter corners of the room. Emma shook her head once, glaring at the coffee cart like it had personally offended her and licked her lips once before swiping her thumb across her phone screen. The smile on her face felt a bit unnatural. “Hey, Zelena.”  
  
“Emma,” Zelena said sharply and that feeling of dread in the back of Emma’s mind was knocking so hard it was making it difficult to see straight. She pushed farther back into the corner, shoulder blades hitting against the wall and she was going to make her lip bleed if she bit it any harder.

“Mer said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?” Emma asked, wincing slightly at the uncertainty in her voice.

She was a professional.

This would have been better if there was some sort of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid in her hand to counteract the nerves.

And, just like that, there was.

There was a hand in front of her and a smile in front of her and the smile on Emma’s face didn’t feel quite as forced when she pulled the cup of hot chocolate out of Killian’s hand.

“You ok?” Killian asked softly and Emma was certain she didn’t imagine the way he kept his fingers against hers, lingering over her wrist and the laces there.

She nodded quickly, taking a sip of hot chocolate before she could dissolve into a list of all the reasons she wasn’t ok. Or how exhausted she was – because she hadn’t fallen asleep until somewhere in the realm of three in the morning, going over the list and the bullet points and how cold it was without him there.

“Fine,” Emma muttered when Killian quirked one eyebrow, nodding towards the phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder.

“What was that?” Zelena asked on the other end, voice just as sharp as it had been a few moments before.

“Nothing, nothing, Zelena, go ahead.”

Killian’s other eyebrow shot up his forehead when he heard Zelena’s name and Emma tried to brush him off, hand waving through the air because this _totally wasn’t a big deal_ and she _totally wasn’t worried_ and he totally didn’t buy it for a second.

He caught her hand mid-swipe, fingers lacing through hers and he actually had the audacity to _wink_ , lips caught up in that vaguely infuriating smirk. Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his hand and if that was as telling as she thought it might be, Killian didn’t acknowledge it, just squeezed her fingers even tighter.

“Zelena?” Emma prompted, noticing the silence coming from New York. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I’ve got some bad news,” Zelena answered and her voice still had that measured tone, like she was trying to make sure she hit every single word as she said them.

“About?”  
  
“Your game.”

Emma’s shoulders sagged immediately and she knew what was coming before Zelena even finished, had known for the last few days that this was the possibility and the likeliest outcome and the Garden couldn't turn down money.

Even if that money came from some manufactured pop concert.

It would sell tickets. Hell, it would probably sell out the entire fucking arena.

Emma’s charity game wouldn’t sell out the entire fucking arena. It’d sell to season-tickets and maybe a few casual, if not ridiculously wealthy, fans who wanted the chance to see Killian Jones, Metro All-Stars captain and captain of the New York Rangers, coach a hockey game.

She blinked quickly – frustration and anger turning towards slightly more melodramatic emotions before she could stop herself – and Emma refused to meet Killian’s gaze, even when she could feel his eyes tracing over her face.

“Who?” Emma asked and she knew she’d practically snapped the words into the phone.

Zelena made a noise in the back of her throat. “What do you mean who?”  
  
“Who’s taking my fucking spot?” Killian squeezed her hand tighter, thumb tracing a line across her wrist and Emma’s lip was actually bleeding at this point. “I asked a question, Zelena,” Emma continued, frustration and disappointment turning quickly to anger almost immediately.

“So I heard.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And I’m still your boss, Emma. That tone’s not going to fly with me. So take a deep breath and refocus and then ask again.”   
  
Emma ran her tongue over teeth only glancing up when she felt Killian’s free hand pull the now-forgotten cup away from her. “It’s fine, love,” he said softly and there was that word again. This wasn’t fine. This was the opposite of fine.

This felt a bit like failure.

She took a deep breath and tried to nod, but if felt like every muscle in her neck had stopped working completely. “Who took my spot, Zelena?”

“Does it really matter?”  
  
“A little.”   
  
“Some singer with choreographed dance moves and sparkly dresses and there’ll be several thousand screaming teenagers and their slightly put-out parents in the Garden on March 5. They made it official last night. They added the date on for a second show since the first one sold out. It’s all about the green or something, I don’t know, I just got an e-mail at midnight.”   
  
“Last night? Seems awfully convenient that this happened when I wasn’t actually in New York.”   
  
Zelena sighed and Emma was certain she was probably rolling her eyes as well – if the situation had been switched Emma probably would have rolled her eyes too. She was being ridiculous. She understood the business, even understood the money and this is why they hadn’t completely publicized the date.

But they’d done enough.

It was out there – there were sponsors and Henry’s house knew and, if the text messages Emma had gotten over the last few days were any indication, had already started the voting process on what they’d use the money for at the house. The waivers were, almost, all in and while Bobby Flay was out, Liam Neeson had recorded that voiceover and, _God_ , Liam Jones was going to come of retirement for this.

What was she going to tell Liam?

What was she going to tell Killian?”

Emma tried to take a deep breath and came up decidedly short, trying to find a way to back farther up against the wall – that didn’t really work either, head hitting up against plaster and paint and it mostly just hurt.

“Fuck,” Emma mumbled under her breath, sliding down the wall. She was sitting on the floor and Killian still hadn’t let go of her hand, eyes a bit wider than usual when Emma met his gaze, her arm pulled up in some impossible way.

“You did your best, Emma,” Zelena said and it felt like she was coddling her just a bit. The anger flared back through Emma in a flash, rushing through every one of her veins and arteries and every inch of her skin until she was convinced she was more _feeling_ than anything else. “It just didn’t work out.”   
  
"Wait, what?”   
  
“It didn't work out,” Zelena repeated, trailing over each word slowly as if Emma didn’t actually understand their meaning.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. You mean to tell me that after all of this, the planning and the celebrities and the _fucking insurance waivers,_ we’re just not going to do this? That’s bullshit, Zelena and you know it. And don’t even bother telling to me to watch my tone. I’m not one of the teenagers coming to this concert.”

Killian made a noise in the back of his throat – something that sounded like a mix between disbelief and amazement – and he was smiling at her with a look of wonder when he crouched in front of her.

“You’re going to hurt your knees,” Emma muttered, finger trailing its way along the back of his neck absently.

“My knees are fine, Swan,” he promised. He sat down anyway, twisting around until he was next to her with his arm around her shoulders and they probably painted some kind of ridiculous picture in the back corner of this very expensive Los Angeles hotel lobby.

Zelena still hadn’t answered.

“What happens now?” Emma asked. “Because I’ve got a house full of kids who are ready for this game and a team full of players who are ready for this game and I’m not about to just brush over it for some pop star, no matter how sparkly her dresses might be.”  
  
Zelna scoffed, but there was an air of understanding in the noise and Emma felt like, maybe, she was making a bit of headway in this conversation.

“What do you want to do?” Zelena asked. That felt like a bigger question than Emma was prepared for. And maybe she wasn’t quite out of control as she felt like she was.

Killian pushed the hot chocolate cup closer to her, smirk back on his face and some of Emma’s anger receded at that.

“What are my options?” Emma asked.

“Eh,” Zelena sighed. “Not many if I’m being honest. We’ve already told the season tickets?”  
  
“As soon as we got Liam we told season tickets,” Emma muttered bitterly and Killian’s arm tightened. “There are a good amount of people excited about this, Zelena.”   
  
“I know. I _know_ and it’s a good idea, Emma, really, but an idea is only that until you’ve got a place to hold it.”   
  
“I did.”   
  
“And now you don’t. So, if you want to still do this, we need to come up with some sort of contingency plan.”   
  
“Of course I still want to do this!”

“Contingency plan, Emma.”  
  
“Tarrytown?” Emma suggested, glancing at Killian out of the corner of her eye. He shrugged, fingers moving up and down her arm. “I mean, it’s not very big, not compared to the Garden, obviously, but we could at least get a good chunk of season tickets in there.”   
  
“You could make it season-ticket only,” Zelena added, but Emma was shaking her head before she’d even completely processed the words.

“No, no, we’re not doing that. The point of this was to help a bunch of kids, Zelena, not give season tickets another show.”  
  
“It’s hardly a show, Swan,” Killian muttered. “It’s a serious game.”

She rolled her eyes, but her head had found its way a bit closer to him and she was halfway towards leaning against his shoulder when Zelena spoke again. “Ok,” she said, sounding every bit as annoyed as Emma felt. “So we keep it open to the public and the GD kids. Were you bringing in more than just that one house?”  
  
“That’s up to Aurora,” Emma said. “And that’s all on my desk. You can probably get Mer to show you later today if you want.”   
  
“It’s the All-Star break.”   
  
“That doesn’t seem to make a scheduling difference to the Garden.”   
  
Zelena actually laughed and Emma downed the rest of her hot chocolate, tapping her thumb impatiently on the side of the now-empty cup. “We can figure out a location tomorrow,” Zelena continued, brushing over Emma’s less-than-professional comments quickly. “Tarrytown seems like your best bet now, but we might be able to do something a bit more city based as well. Nine o’clock work for you tomorrow?”   
  
“Sure,” Emma said, resigning herself to another night of lost sleep. “I’ll, uh, come up with some location ideas and find out if Aurora knows how many GD kids are set in stone yet.”   
  
“And a revised budget.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“A revised budget,” Zelena repeated evenly. “If we’re not doing this at the actual Garden anymore, it’s going to be fewer people and that would, presumably, mean it won’t cost as much to feed them or gift bag them.”   
  
“Are we using gift bag as a verb in this situation?”   
  
“A revised budget, Emma. Nine o’clock tomorrow. My office.”   
  
“Sounds good.”

Zelena made a noise that sounded as if she was nodding and the line went dead before Emma could sigh over how decidedly _not good_ this entire situation was.

She didn’t even bother putting her phone back in her pocket, fingers racing across the screen as she started typing out instructions to Merida, vaguely aware that her assistant probably already had a better handle on the situation than Emma did while sitting in a Los Angeles hotel lobby.

Merida’s answer was almost immediate – she’d probably been in Zelena’s office.

_We’ll be fine, boss. It’s going to be totally fine._

That word. It was going to make Emma’s eyes go permanently cross.

She heaved a sigh, head, finally, falling against Killian’s shoulder and she could feel his lips brush across the top of her hair, arm tightening a fraction of an inch around her.

“What did she say?” Killian asked.

Emma didn’t answer – or at least didn’t answer the question he asked. “You have a pen?”

“What?”

“A pen,” she said, pushing off the floor so she could grab the crumpled up to-do-list out of her back pocket. Killian’s eyes narrowed when Emma tried to flatten out the sheet of paper on her knee, grumbling slightly when it didn’t work.

“You brought a list, but no pen, Swan?” Killian asked, tugging the paper out of her hands.

“I didn’t think I’d have to be adding to the list,” Emma admitted. Jeez. She should just start typing things out on her phone. Or carrying pens with her regularly.

“Here,” he said, twisting slightly to push his hand into the pocket of his jacket. He was carrying a pen. Emma tried not to put too much weight in that. It was more difficult than she would have imagined.

“You just carry pens in your jacket? What happens if it breaks?”  
  
“I’d imagine I’d get ink on the inside of my jacket pocket. Why are you questioning this, Swan? You needed a pen.”   
  
“That’s true. You’re just like some kind of Boy Scout or something.”   
  
“I hardly think that’s true,” he laughed, moving his eyebrows quickly like that proved that point. It kind of did – particularly when Emma’s fingers brushed against his and she was certain she actually saw sparks.

She swiped a line over the list of everything she had to do that day and started jotting down new ideas for a charity game that, just a few minutes before, had almost been entirely planned –  _Tarrytown, city, budgets, GD kids, tell Henry, no don’t tell Henry._

“You don’t have to do either one of those last two, Swan,” Killian said softly, leaning forward to stare at the brand-new list.  
  
“What?” she asked, surprise finding its way into all four letters. “Why not? If this doesn’t…”

Emma cut herself off, tongue darting over her suddenly dry lips and she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at Killian. She pulled her head back up, staring at the sheet of paper in front of them and everything she had to do.

It felt a bit like a flood.

Or maybe an avalanche.

Certainly some sort of vaguely horrible natural disaster.

“Don’t do that, Swan,” Killian muttered.

Emma took a deep breath, lungs feeling like they were going to burst with the amount of oxygen in them. “It might not work,” she whispered. “We were supposed to get the Garden. We _had_ the Garden and now we don’t have anything.”   
  
“That’s not true at all.”   
  
“You were sitting here weren’t you?” Killian nodded and Emma could almost _feel_ everything starting to come unhinged. Her breathing was getting a bit erratic. “Then you know that’s not true at all. We’ve only kind of half told season tickets that this was a thing and we haven’t even made it public yet. We were supposed to have a month! We were supposed to have a full month to promo between Casino Night and the game and the Garden was supposed to give me my day and not back out like a bunch of assholes.”

She groaned – or maybe growled – and rolled her head between her shoulders, trying to find the best way to crack it so it wouldn’t feel like a rubber band about to snap in half. “Tarrytown’s not big enough,” Emma sighed. “And no way are season tickets going to take a train upstate for some charity game, even if you promise to do photo op with every single one of them.”

“So don’t do it in Tarrytown,” Killian countered, as if that were the most obvious answer in the world.

“You know of some other practice facility that the Rangers are just hiding in Manhattan, then?

“I don’t, no, but I do know of several other rinks in Manhattan. Including one with signed photos of both Liam and I on the wall.”  
  
“For real?” Emma asked and she probably shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. His picture was on the side of Madison Square Garden.

Killian shrugged. “We did play hockey in the city, love. And if we’re both going to be part of this, then I can’t imagine a situation where they say no.”  
  
“Who?”   
  
“The Piers,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer. “Hopper still works down there, still runs the youth league there. He can make it work. Or, rather, he will make it work.”   
  
Emma considered that for a moment, considered the earnest sound of his voice and the ridiculous amount of blue in his eyes whenever he looked at her, staring straight at her and her close-to-bursting list with the kind of certainty that made her almost believe this might work.

No, she thought quickly, not almost.

This could work.

As long as she wasn’t the most stubborn person in the entire world.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re rescuing me?” Emma asked, tugging on the zipper of his jacket. “I thought we opted against the rescuing.”

“I’m not,” Killian promised.

“Then what’s happening here?”

Killian pressed his lips together tightly, a straight line that almost matched up with the tension lingering in Emma’s neck. It felt a bit like the night before and the morning before and maybe the dread in the back of her mind was partially because of the nerves etched into the corners of his face.

Emma _trusted_ Killian, implicitly and completely and in some kind of overwhelming way she still didn’t entirely understand – it’s because you love him, _more than anything,_ her mind supplied helpfully – but there were still a few walls and maybe a slightly still-there foundation that gave her pause.

He wanted to help and she was absolutely the most stubborn person on the planet.

“Killian,” Emma prodded, pushing her finger into the front of his team-branded shirt. “What’s happening?”  
  
“You said we,” he answered.

“What? Was that supposed to make sense?”  
  
He sighed, but the smile was almost back. “Yesterday, when we were at fan event number two, you said we were going to win a Cup.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open, breath rushing out of her in a somewhat terrified rush. She hadn’t entirely realized she’d said that. She’d thought it – had considered them some sort of hockey-playing, hockey-organizing, Stanley Cup-winning unit for the last several weeks – but she didn’t know she’d actually given voice to the idea of a _we_ until it became blatantly obvious that Killian had thought of nothing else since she’d said it.

“That wasn’t on purpose,” Emma mumbled, hoping to save a bit of emotional face. It didn’t matter. He totally knew what she meant.

“Yes, it did,” Killian argued. “It meant...everything. This isn’t a rescue, Swan. This is me knowing someone who can help and wanting to help and acting like some sort of we.”  
  
“I like that.” And it wasn’t quite enough, but it also was enough in some sort of _we_ type of way. “It’s just...” Emma sighed, scrunching her nose when she couldn’t think of the right word.

“What?”

“It just seems like a lot of maybe’s and hopefully’s. That’s not really my strong suit.”  
  
Killian made a noise, shaking his head quickly. “It is, Swan, but there’s still plenty of time and you’ve still got a month to promo. And as for maybe’s and hopefully’s, I’ve learned never to question yours.”

Emma groaned again, but mostly so this entire jam-packed lobby wouldn’t hear the way her heartbeat picked up. “That’s quite a line, Cap.”  
  
“And true. We’ll call Hopper and we’ll get the day at the Piers and you can send out official invites next week and promo at Casino Night in some sort of attempt to make Casino Night seem almost bearable.”   
  
“Hey,” Emma laughed, knocking her knuckles against his chest. “I’ve planned all of Casino Night. It’s going to be awesome. Plus, I might have gotten my dress already.”   
  
She’d done it for the reaction, for the slightly open mouth and wider-than-usual eyes, and it had worked perfectly, Killian twisting around to stare at her in disbelief. “When?” he asked.

“Couple of days before we flew out here. It’s probably sitting in a box in Reese’s loft at this point.”

“And you never thought to mention that before?”  
  
“You haven’t gotten your outfit yet?”   
  
“It’s a tux, Swan. I call a store and they give me one that fits and I show up at Casino Night.”   
  
“Yeah, mine took a bit more work than that. It’s got fringe, you know, matches the theme and everything.”

His eyes did something wholly unfair considering they were still sitting in the lobby and sitting on the floor, but he ducked his head anyway and kissed her quickly. Emma sighed against him, forehead falling forward to rest against Killian’s like she couldn’t quite bring herself to pull away completely.

“A _we,_ Swan,” Killian muttered.

It sounded like a promise.

* * *

“This is nuts,” Emma said, standing in one of the corporate boxes in the Staples Center, leaning forward slightly to glance down at the ice.

“Haven’t you been up here a ton of times?” Liam asked, glancing at Emma over his shoulder as he propped his feet up on one of the tables in the room. There was more than one table and at least two of them seemed dedicated to food.

Elsa clicked her tongue and widened her eyes meaningfully, but Emma couldn’t even bring herself to be frustrated.

They’d called the Piers that afternoon – Archie Hopper’s excitement at the prospect of hosting a Rangers charity event paling in comparison to even the idea of the _brothers Jones_ returning to the ice in Chelsea – and it took Killian less than ten full minutes before he’d negotiated an entire space and a guaranteed rink and a three o’clock appointment for Emma on Monday afternoon.

It was going to work.

It was going to be _fine._ And the fan event was all on schedule for post-game, the restaurant on the other side of the street already decked out in more RANGERSTOWN merchandise than Emma had even imagined existed.

It also helped that Killian Jones, captain of the Metropolitan Division All-Stars, looked very, very good in his brand-new uniform. And may have been caught kissing Emma Swan, New York Rangers director of community relations, fan experiences and events by Robin Locksley in the Staples Center locker room twenty minutes before puck drop.

Robin took a picture and sent it to Will – who had possibly broken Emma’s inbox with the influx of scandalized messages – but Emma couldn’t wipe the smile off her face and she was almost positive she didn’t imagine the nod towards the suites just after the anthem.

She was happy.

“It’s ok, El,” Emma said quickly, sinking into one of the open chairs just behind the windows of the suite. “And, no, Liam, I didn’t really come up here much. The press stuff is up another level, that’s where Ruby is now, and my office was in a totally different building. It’s a pretty different set-up than it is in New York.”  
  
Liam nodded thoughtfully, glancing away when a whistle blew on the ice and making some sort of disgruntled noise when he realized Killian was still on the bench.

“He’s the captain of this stupid team,” Liam grumbled. “He should be out there.”  
  
“It’s three-on-three,” Elsa said reasonably, tugging one of the twins onto her lap when they tried to dive bomb towards the food table. “His shifts are going to be shorter.”   
  
He sighed, but he couldn’t argue, eyes widening just a bit when Killian swung his legs over the boards.

Emma tugged on her laces almost unconsciously, fingers twisting up in the material as she all but pressed her head against the glass, watching Killian weave his way through the distinct lack of defense three-on-three created.

God, he could skate well. Emma was half convinced he could do anything well, but skating was definitely up there and a distinct lack of defense only served to make that blatantly obvious. He moved before the Pacific All-Stars moved and then he kind of made them look like not-so-All-Stars, shooting almost as soon as he’d crossed the blue line.

“Show off,” Liam mumbled, but there was a pride in his voice that would have been obvious even if Emma was sitting next to him.

“Literally two seconds ago, you were all mad about him not being on the ice and now you’re mad about him scoring?” Elsa laughed, making a face at one of her sons when they started to fuss at being forced into a seat.

“There’s a way to these kinds of things,” Liam explained. “He could have stick-handled some more. Added a bit more finesse.”  
  
“That’s never been KJ and you know it.” Elsa glanced at Emma, eyes a bit more meaningful than her voice had been. “He just kind of barrels into things sometimes, you know,” she explained. “Shoots because he’s open and not because he should.”

“That’s ok,” Emma said and Liam made some kind of disbelieving noise behind her.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma promised. “He was...open or something.”  
  
Elsa’s smile widened and her eyes darted to Liam and Emma tried to remember how to breathe when she stood up, phone practically shaking in her pocket from all the incoming text messages.

Killian’s shift was over.

And the Metro had won its semifinal.

“Hey,” Liam said, nearly leaping out of the chair to follow Emma towards the suite door. She lifted her eyebrows, leaning against the open door frame and ignored the text messages she was certain were from – in order – David, Mary Margaret, Henry and a very put-out Ruby who had flown straight into _overprotective mode_ when she heard what happened to the charity game. Emma had to stop her from calling Zelena to yell.

“What’s up?” Emma asked, silently cursing herself for how _lame_ that sounded. She was nervous. She didn’t need to be nervous. She texted Elsa with something that almost resembled regularity now. She’d beaten Liam at Christmas air hockey.

There was no reason to be nervous anymore.

She was part of a _we._

Liam shuffled his feet, hands pushed into his pants pockets and maybe Emma wasn’t the only nervous one in this conversation – he was practically radiating with it.

“Hopper’s really excited to see you too,” Emma said, desperate to find something to fill the silence with. Work. Work was a good filler. “I think he actually started jumping up and down when Killian called.”  
  
“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” Liam laughed.

“And thanks again for doing this. I mean, coming to the game and agreeing to play and sign that stuff. I already told my assistant and she thinks you might go for the most when they auction it off at Casino Night.”  
  
Liam laughed louder, brushing his hair out of his eyes in a move that was so _Killian_ that Emma was certain her heart had actually beat its way out of her ribs. “Ah, well, make sure you mention that in front of Elsa later tonight. Give me something to brag about for the next couple of weeks.”   
  
“Is that what you wanted to talk about?”   
  
“No, no, I, uh, Killian is absolutely going to kill me if he knows I did this.”   
  
Emma had been waiting for it. She kind of thought she’d checked off this particular relationship box with Elsa and the kitchen at Christmas, but she supposed Liam deserved his chance at an overprotective speech and she was pleasantly surprised to find there was no urge to run away. It was something else entirely – determination.

“I’m not...I’m not going anywhere,” Emma said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“He’s not going anywhere, or at least he doesn’t want to. That’s what I’m saying.”

Liam made a face, pushing his tongue against the side of his cheek and he shrugged. Emma’s fingers moved towards her laces out of habit, dread reappearing in full force in the front of her mind and the back of her mind and every single inch of her body.

They hadn’t really talked about free agency.

They hadn’t really avoided it either.

It just hadn’t really come up, not in any kind of in-depth conversation that was anymore than her promising he’d get resigned in bed the morning before – far too focused on the actual season and _we_ and a scoring skid and trying to survive a whole weekend in Los Angeles.

Emma knew he’d considered it, there was no way he hadn’t, but she’d never once even thought about the possibility of Killian Jones….not captain of the New York Rangers. That sentence didn’t even make sense.

“They’re going to resign him,” Emma said and it felt a bit like arguing. “He’s the captain of the team.”  
  
“One that just signed Robin Locksley to a max deal last season.”   
  
“That’s totally different.”   
  
“There’s cap space involved, Emma,” Liam reasoned. “And I bet they want to lock up Phillip the Rookie with the way he’s been playing, not to mention the deadline coming up and what might happen if they trade for someone to make a Cup run.”

“Who would they even trade for?”  
  
Liam shrugged again and Emma resisted the urge to punch him in the face. “A defenseman who can stop shots on the PK?”   
  
“Scarlet will be back for the west coast swing.”   
  
“For real?”   
  
“It’s kind of my job to know these things.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Liam admitted and he was almost laughing again. He still looked nervous. “I’m not warning you against anything one way or another and, like I said, Killian would cross-check me into several different boards if he knew I was doing this, but it’s not one hundred percent certain. I just...you guys should be ready for that.”   
  
Emma dropped her hand back to her side – laces resettling on her wrist – and took a deep breath. “They’re going to resign him,” she said again and Liam looked a little disappointed.

And he didn’t say anything else before her phone went off again, demands from Ruby to get downstairs before the start of the championship game because there were fans down there that had _won that contest_ and she didn’t know how to properly entertain them.

She remembered the way, could probably get through the Staples Center with her eyes closed and she was more than halfway to the visitor’s locker room, foot hovering just above the landing between the second and third floor when a door swung open and she heard someone shout her name.

Emma groaned – she actually groaned, feet hitting the landing with a soft _thump_ and she tried to move around him, but Neal sidestepped her, blocking the top of the next flight of stairs with almost practiced ease.

She should have taken the elevator.

“What?” Emma snapped, glancing down at her phone when it started to vibrate again.

“You look busy,” Neal said.

“Which, you’d think, would mean you’d want to get out of my way.”  
  
“What’s going on, Emma?”   
  
“I have a job?”

Neal laughed softly, crossing his arms lightly and there was a newspaper sticking out of the back corner of his pants pocket. Ruby was sending a text every three seconds now.

“How’d the pizza go?” Neal continued, seemingly undeterred by the sounds Emma’s phone was making.

She sighed, not even bothering to look up as she fired off a quick reply to Ruby. “For real? I’ve got to go, Neal. I’ve got contest winners waiting for me in the locker room.”

“Not Jones?”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Fair question,” Neal shrugged, smiling slightly when Emma looked up. She shouldn’t have looked up.

“No it’s not,” Emma countered. She tried to move again and Neal followed suit, stepping to his right as soon as she moved to her left like he could read her mind or something. “God, get out of the way, Neal.”  
  
“What are you guys going to do at the deadline?” he asked and Emma rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.

“I don’t have time for this.”  
  
“I’m serious. If he’s out here, how’s this going to work?”

Emma froze. And maybe stopped breathing. Her eyes went wide and Neal lifted his eyebrows as he tugged the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Emma slowly like it was a royal proclamation or something.

**Jones’ing for LA: Rangers winger set to head west, reports**

She definitely wasn’t breathing, hand shaking just a little bit the longer she stared at the headline.

No.

That wasn’t true. He would have told her. He would have said something.

Emma shook her head, pushing the paper back towards Neal and she yanked her hand back when his fingers brushed against the back of her palm.

“That’s not right,” Emma said, but her voice lacked the conviction she wanted it to.

Neal shrugged. “It’s in the paper. It was on TV too.”  
  
“What?”

“Yup,” he nodded, folding out the creases Emma had put in the report. “Got asked about coming out here. He said no, obviously, but we’re not the only team that’s expressed interest.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait, expressed interest? The Kings have reached out?”   
  
“As far as I know.”   
  
“So you don’t know then.”   
  
He shrugged again and Emma couldn’t stop herself from sighing. Her phone was probably going to explode at this point. “I’ve heard things. Gold’s interested in getting him out here.”   
  
“Gold?” Emma repeated and Neal nodded. The stairwell was spinning.

“He’s quoted in the article,” Neal said, like that proved something.

“I don’t care about the article.”  
  
“I’m just telling you what I know Emma.”   
  
She should have asked more questions. She should have texted Regina or maybe pushed Neal down several flights of staircases just for being such an enormous _ass,_ but Emma remembered Liam’s voice and the warnings and the _maybes_ she’d finally started to ignore.

They were back.

“I’ve got to go,” Emma said and for the second time in as many conversations she didn’t wait for a response.

She felt like she moved in slow motion for the rest of the night.

It all got done – the ridiculously long to-do-list got crossed off and accomplished and the fans were packed in the restaurant across the street from the Staples Center, toasting a Metro Division victory like it actually meant anything more than bragging rights and several thousand extra dollars to players with multi-million dollar contracts.

Multi-million dollar contracts that might not be in New York. She hadn’t really considered it and now that the story was there – existing on her phone now as Emma nearly stared a hole into the screen – she couldn’t quite think of anything else.

Ruby kept chancing glances her direction, the _worry_ in her gaze only serving to irritate Emma even more as she tapped her fingers on the side of her glass.

There wasn’t much to do at an event like this. There was food and Rangers highlights on the screen and Rangers players willing to take photos with fans.

All Emma had to do was watch. And stew. Definitely stew.

She read the story for what was undoubtedly the thirty-second time that night, tracing over the now familiar sentences and words and reports.

Gold had been quoted – something about wanting some speed and Killian’s experience and how, after last year’s disappointment, they were determined to make a run at a Cup, certain they could do it if Killian Jones was also on the roster.

It made Emma’s stomach flip.

He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t just leave. She _knew_ it. She was certain.

And he should have told her anyway.

“You look at that thing any harder and your phone might think you actually hate it, love,” Killian said, stepping towards Emma and resting his hand on her crossed knees with a familiarity that made her stomach flip for a totally different reason. “What’s so interesting?”  
  
“Story,” Emma answered, voice short and tone clipped and she almost felt bad when Killian lowered his eyebrows in confusion.

He ran his tongue over his lip, eyes narrowed just a bit and his hand hadn’t moved off her knee yet. Left hand. It was his left hand.

Jeez.

This couldn’t just be easy. She couldn’t just be mad or disappointed or whatever adjective she was – _furious,_ that tiny, insecure voice in the back of her head provided, and maybe just a bit certain she’d been waiting for this.

She’d been waiting for the moment it would all blow up in her face.

She was a pessimistic fool.

“Swan?” Killian continued, nudging the side of his hip against her still crossed-legs. “What kind of story?”  
  
Emma didn’t answer, just pushed her phone towards his hand. He laughed softly at the move and then he didn’t laugh at all, eyes widening when he saw the headline before turning to slits as he read through the rest of the story.

His hair was still a bit damp from post, but he ran his hand through it anyway, tugging a bit tighter than usual when he reached the longer-than-normal ends at the back of his head. Emma hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t blinked or taken a deep breath and the room was spinning again, even perched on top of a stool in the corner of this bar.

“None of this is true,” Killian said softly, holding her phone out in front of him.

“No?” Emma countered and _there_ was the edge in her voice she’d been waiting for. Took it long enough to show up.

“You think it is?”  
  
“I have no idea what to think. I mean Gold got quoted in it. I could probably recite it verbatim at this point. You’re like some prize he wants to win at a fair or something. He’s talking about you like you’re the best player in the entire league.”

Killian lifted one eyebrow and Emma didn’t even try and stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Jeez,” she sighed, “you know what I mean.”  
  
“I do, love,” he said and his voice was just as soft as ever. This nervous version of Killian Jones gave Emma pause.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know.”

Emma tilted her head, eyebrows pulled low as she tugged herself towards the edge of the stool she was perched on. Her fingers found Killian’s belt loop again, tugging him closer to her and she tried to smile. “Did you talk to Gold?”  
  
“He wouldn’t talk to me.”   
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
Killian tapped his thumb against her wrist, the pad of his finger tracing over the slightly worse-for-wear laces. They’d taken some kind of emotional beating over the last forty-eight hours. “You want to take a walk, Swan?”

“Sure.” Her hand found his when when she followed behind him towards the door and out onto the street – fans still piling out of the Staples Center and lingering in the square outside the arena.

“C’mon,” Emma muttered, tugging Killian towards a side street that might have been more of an alley if they were going to get technical. “It’ll be almost quiet over here.”

It was definitely an alley – a dumpster a few feet away from them and a very distinct smell that Emma would probably just refer to as _Los Angeles_ if asked – but it was a bit quieter and bright enough that she could still see the anxious look on Killian’s face.

“No LA?” Emma asked.

“Of course not,” Killian sighed and he sounded a bit disappointed that Emma could even bring herself to say the words. Well, welcome to the club.

“What did you mean before? About Gold not wanting to talk to you?”  
  
Killian sighed and his hand was going to get stuck in his hair at this point. “That whole article is a lie, Swan. I don’t know what Gold’s playing at, he wouldn’t want me in LA, no matter what he’s been quoted saying,”   
  
“Explain that.”   
  
“Remember when you asked if I knew him?” Emma nodded and there were several boulders sitting in the pit of her stomach at this point, she was sure of it. “I...do. I’ve never actually talked to him, but I know him.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”   
  
“She was married,” Killian said, rushing over the words as his eyes fell to his shoes. “She was married and she didn’t love him and he didn’t care. And, I mean, there’s no proof or anything that doesn’t just show I’m slightly crazy, but he kept calling and he wouldn't sign the papers and she was still married when she died.”   
  
Emma moved before her mind had entirely caught up with her, hand finding Killian’s and she could hear him exhale when her fingers laced through his. “Milah?” she asked.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Milah was married to Gold? The same Gold that fired me? That ruined everything and left me on Reese’s couch?”

“I don’t think he ruined everything, Swan. Not now, at least. I mean, well, I hope not.”

He was babbling and the words were barely audible, more muddled syllables that didn’t quite match up with the way his mouth was moving and that seemed to infuriate Emma even more.   
  
She pulled her hand away, yanking her fingers back away from Killian and he sighed softly when she moved, eyes closed lightly as Emma crossed her arms. “You knew,” Emma said and it sounded exactly like the accusation it was. “You knew I got fired. You knew what happened here. Why didn’t you say anything?”   
  
“It didn’t seem important.”   
  
“What? Are you fucking kidding me?”   
  
Ah, well, there was the anger. It had taken its sweet time showing up, but now that it had arrived, Emma was nearly shaking with it, the disappointment that had lingered in the pit of her stomach for the last hour and a half shifting into something that felt like fury.

Liar.

“Swan,” Killian sighed. “None of it is true. I’m not going to Los Angeles. I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“You don’t know that for sure.”   
  
“No,” he admitted, rocking back on his heels and his fingers pressed into the back of his palm. “But that’s a distinct work in progress.”   
  
“What is that supposed to mean?”   
  
Killian eyed her meaningfully and Emma didn’t move an inch. Fury, it seemed, was enough to cement her feet to the ground.

“It means that I’m trying to stay in New York,” he said and she didn’t miss that little extra bit of edge in his voice.

Good. That was good. Let him be mad.

She was furious.

“Trying to stay in New York?” Emma repeated skeptically. “Were you not before?” Killian’s eyes widened and Emma felt her breath catch in her throat. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she continued, half shouting the words in the otherwise abandoned alley.

“I’m not going anywhere, Swan,” Killian said again and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

“Were you going to leave?”

“Emma,” he sighed, closing his eyes again and taking a step away from her. “That’s not what was happening.”  
  
“Were you?”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Killian,” she shouted, glaring at him as soon as his eyes met hers again. “The truth. Were you trying to leave New York?”   
  
He rolled his head in between his shoulders, glancing up at the distinct lack of stars downtown Los Angeles provided. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I was.”   
  
Emma licked her lips, trying to remember how crucial oxygen was to maintaining consciousness and she pushed her back up against the side of the building behind her until the stone pressed against her spine.  

“Why?” Emma asked.

“Why was I trying to leave New York or why am I no longer trying to leave New York?”  
  
“Either or.”   
  
His shoulders moved when he took a deep breath, but his eyes met Emma’s and it looked as if he were trying to _will_ her to understand. “I was alone,” Killian said. “I was here and there wasn’t anyone else here and I didn’t want that anymore. I was tired of the set-ups and the pity and all of that. I figured I’d make one more run at a Cup and then I’d go.”   
  
“And Regina knew that?”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian nodded. “She thought it was the worst idea in the world, but she knew.”   
  
“Where did you want to go?”   
  
“Colorado.”   
  
Of course. Of course he wanted to go to Colorado and Liam’s warning suddenly made a bit more sense. It also left Emma feeling just a bit closer to empty than she could remember feeling since she’d landed at JFK all those months ago.

God damnit.

“I’m not going, Swan,” Killian continued and his voice had turned to pleading at this point. “I’m not.”  
  
“But you wanted to.”   
  
“And I don’t anymore.”   
  
“Why? I mean, El’s pregnant again and there are rumors about you leaving now. Have you talked to other teams?”   
  
“I haven’t talked to anyone. But, well, there’s been some other teams trying to talk to me.”   
  
“Who?” Emma asked, almost painfully aware that he still hadn’t answered her first question. He still hadn’t told her why.

“Most of the Central. Gina claimed the Stars were interested, some pitch about looking good in green. And, uh, Colorado.”  
  
“And you said, what, exactly?”   
  
“I think the fact that I’m still wearing Rangers gear is a pretty solid answer.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly – in through her nose, out through her mouth. “No Los Angeles?”   
  
“No,” Killian said, taking a step back towards and both of his hands fell on her shoulders. “No. He’s lying, Swan. Every single word in that story was wrong. I don’t...I don’t want to leave New York.”

“Why?” Emma repeated. She rolled her shoulders as she spoke, but Killian didn’t move his hands. If anything his grip tightened.

“You, Emma. I told you that. It’s you.”  
  
She blinked and she couldn’t move if she tried, Killian’s hands heavy on her shoulder and his gaze somewhere between _intense_ and _overwhelming_ and breathing was suddenly much more difficult than she ever remembered it being.

“I love you,” he continued, thumb tracing out a small semicircle over the front of her jacket. “More than anything and I wasn’t ready for it and I didn’t expect it and neither one of those things matters because it’s changed everything.”

There was no oxygen in that alley, Emma was positive.

There were only blue eyes and emotion and Emma’s lip pulled tightly in between her teeth.

“I”m not leaving, Swan,” Killian said. Good. That was good. Back to nicknames and _easy_ and she wasn’t sure what she would do if he called her Emma again. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Sure.”  
  
“Swan. I’m not. I am here and I want to be here and one story in...what paper was that even?”   
  
“The _Times_.”   
  
“One story in the _Los Angeles Times_ isn’t going to change that.”   
  
She wanted to believe him. Part of her did believe him. Part of her loved him _more than anything_ – no, that was wrong. All of her loved him more than anything and, well, that might have been the problem.

Because it was a contract year and nothing was certain in the NHL and he might be Killian Jones, Metro All-Stars captain and captain of the goddamn New York Rangers, but he was also a hockey player and he had to have a team to play for.

And somewhere in the back corner of her mind, that small, abandoned girl that Emma had been able to ignore every time Killian glanced her direction, reared her ugly head and shouted that believing in anything that wasn’t completely certain was simply setting yourself up for disappointment.

Get out before you get hurt.

“You don’t know that,” Emma whispered.

“They’re going to sign me,” Killian argued and she could feel every inch of him when his hands moved from her shoulders to her hips. “If we win a Cup, it’s a no-brainer. There’s no reason to think they won’t.”  
  
“You can’t promise that.”   
  
“I just did.”   
  
“It’s not your call, Killian. It’s not even Regina’s call. It’s a front office and there’s budgets and cap space and if you get a good offer you can’t just ignore that.”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows and it almost looked like something cracked – eyes dulling just a bit when his hands slammed back against his sides. He looked a bit stunned. “What are you saying, Swan?”   
  
“That if you get a good offer you should consider it.”   
  
He opened his mouth only to close it almost as quickly and the dull eyes sparked a little bit. He didn’t just look disappointed. He looked angry.

And Emma suddenly realized what he might look like just before he checked someone.

“You don’t mean that,” Killian said softly. “You said you thought they’d sign me. You said we were going to win a Cup.”  
  
“I’m not on the team, Killian.”

“That’s not true.”  
  
“It is,” Emma sighed, tugging her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m not even really in the right job. I’m not community relations. I’m PR.”   
  
“That hasn’t mattered. You’ve done more than whoever was community relations before you. You planned this whole weekend in a couple of days.”   
  
“And got my marquee event cancelled.”   
  
“We fixed that.”   
  
“No,” Emma argued. “You fixed it. I don’t need that.”   
  
“We’ve been over that, Swan, it wasn’t a rescue. I wanted to help. I wanted to help _you,_  that’s all it was. That’s all it’s been since you showed up in the hallway. It has just been you.”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly and the walls that had been rubble just a few hours before felt a bit stronger, like they were shifting back into place as soon as her eyes met Killian’s. Or maybe that was just her heart cracking.

She was a sentimental mess.

“It shouldn’t be,” she said. “This...isn’t some kind of group project.”  
  
“No, it’s not. It’s just us.”   
  
Emma opened her mouth – words sitting on the tip of her tongue, explanations and, maybe, apologies and she didn’t know what she was thinking, a jumbled mix of emotions that seemed tinged with disappointment no matter which way she turned.

She’d been certain. She’d _believed_ in some kind of way she never thought she could. She’d forgotten all the reasons she shouldn’t.

She knew he loved her, knew she loved him right back and then some, but NHL front offices wouldn’t care about either one of those things.

And, maybe, neither should they.

“Uh, Em,” Ruby yelled, a shadowy figure and flash of red highlights moving cautiously towards the front of the alleyway. “There’s some kind of fan thing happening inside. They want to take pictures with Jones and they kind of look like they’re about to storm out here if he doesn’t make a return appearance inside sooner rather than later.”

Emma exhaled and Killian didn’t even try and mask his groan, squeezing his eyes closed in frustration. “Yeah, ok, Rubes,’ Emma called back. “We’ll be there in a second.”  
  
She could, somehow, hear Ruby’s heels when she moved back towards the restaurant and neither Emma nor Killian moved.

“Better not keep them waiting,” Emma said after what felt like an eternity of silence. “Last thing we need this weekend is a fan riot.”  
  
Emma took a step to her right, but Killian tightened his grip on her hip and the wince he let out when he flexed his hand felt like it shot straight through her core. “This is going to work, Swan,” he said and there was something just a bit desperate in his voice. “I promise.”  
  
She nodded once before walking back into the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peaaaaaaks out from behind laptop. Hey guys. Neal is the worst. Neal will continue to be the worst. Killian probably should have mentioned free agency. Emma probably shouldn't have just assumed New York would sign him. Everyone is super stressed out. The angst, however, won't last long. And this is about as relationship angst'y as we get all story. So there is that. 
> 
> As always, your response to this story blows my mind and @laurenorder makes all the words better. Come yell on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	29. Chapter 29

“Arthur, if you break the whiteboard again they’re not going to give you another one.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Jones.”  
  
Killian glanced towards Robin, certain there’d be a smile on his face or at least something that resembled amusement in his eyes and there weren't either of those things – there was just frustration, the kind that almost rivaled Arthur’s in the middle of the Calgary visitor’s locker room.

Huh. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Robin had been quiet on the flight up, but so had Killian, mind racing with everything Emma had said – and maybe _not_ said – in the alley outside the bar and they’d barely had time for much more than a quick _bye_ when the fans left and they had two different flights to catch. He’d stared out the window of the plane, phone held loosely in his hand and tried to figure out exactly what to say.

He couldn’t come up with anything to say.

And he wasn’t really supposed to use his phone.

He texted Emma when they landed and fired off the first fact he could remember about Calgary – it’s Canada’s sunniest city and, of course, it was cloudy when Killian woke up the next day. Figured.

She texted back when they landed in New York, but there was no fact about the Flames and no update on the weather at home.

“We’re winning,” Killian pointed out, nodding towards the TV screen in the corner of the locker room and Arthur’s eyes, somehow, got even more narrow, tiny little slits of emotion that probably would have made him laugh if he weren’t his own mess of off-ice emotion as well.

And just like the distinct lack of sun in Canada’s sunniest city, grabbing a quick, two-goal lead in the first period of the first game after the All-Star break felt a bit like some sort of colossal joke. If Emma didn’t text back, if Emma thought it was better to _listen to a good offer if he got one,_ Killian wasn’t certain anything else really mattered.

Melodramatic idiot.

“A two-goal lead is the most dangerous lead in all of hockey, Jones,” Arthur snapped, throwing his whiteboard marker at Killian for good measure.

“Jeez, Arthur,” Robin muttered and that might have been the first time he’d spoken all day. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”  
  
Will laughed or scoffed or made some sort of noise in the back of the room and Arthur turned his wrath on the recently-returned defenseman. “Something to add, Scarlet?” Arthur asked. “You’re even lucky to be on the ice. You know I thought about pulling you off your shift in that period?”  
  
“He’s barely got one leg,” Killian argued, throwing Will a supportive glance. Scarlet didn’t look impressed. And Killian wondered when he’d managed to offend _him_ as well. “And he’s already blocked, like, four shots.”  
  
“Hurt like hell,” Will added, pressing the heel of his hand into his thigh like that, somehow, proved his point.

“He only blocked three shots,” Arthur said, but his voice lacked some of the bite it had at the start of intermission and he wasn’t clutching the whiteboard quite as hard anymore. His knuckles almost looked normal.

“Ah, well, he’s trying his best,” Killian laughed. Will’s expression didn’t change. Robin didn’t say anything.

Fuck.

They knew about the trade. Or the lack of a trade. He wasn’t going to leave New York. Maybe. If the Rangers would resign him.

The Rangers were totally going to resign him.

“I want faster line changes,” Arthur continued, ignoring whatever attempts at humor Killian was failing to hit. “And quicker moves up the ice and less turnovers in the neutral zone. If any of you turn the puck over in the goddamn neutral zone again, I’ll make you skate blue-to-blue sprints until you can’t even stand up.”  
  
No one said anything.

“Get back on the ice,” Arthur said and it sounded a bit like a command.

The box score claimed they finished with double-digit turnovers in the neutral zone and they gave up the two-goal lead in the opening minutes of the third period and Arthur had pulled Jefferson, but only after he snapped another whiteboard in half. They won anyway, still firmly cemented in that first Wild Card spot, and no one said anything to Killian when he walked into the locker room – second star with a distinctly silent cell phone sitting in his visitor’s locker.

“Jones,” Arthur shouted and Killian felt his head snap up automatically, eyes going wide when he saw the look on the man’s face.

He didn’t look angry. He looked disappointed.

Jesus Christ.

“Go,” Robin said, nodding towards the far end of the locker room. “We’ll save you some food.”

Will hummed in the back of his throat, fingers moving over the screen of his phone – which had barely stopped buzzing since Killian walked towards them.

“Yeah, ok, thanks,” Killian mumbled, hand in his hair and knot in his stomach and he should have texted more facts about Calgary. Or maybe apologized. Definitely apologized.

He moved across the locker room slowly, measured steps so he didn’t actually trip over the skates he still hadn’t taken off and Phillip glanced up when he moved past him. Disappointment – it was more disappointment and Killian had never quite felt like he did in that moment, like he’d, somehow, let down an entire NHL team.

He needed to get home.

He wouldn’t be home for another week.

“What’s going on, Arthur?” Killian asked when he came up in front in front of him. “We won the game.”  
  
Arthur didn’t say anything, just pushed a crumpled up and slightly-out-of-date sports section into Killian’s chest. He groaned, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and he didn’t need it – he’d probably memorized every single line of the entire goddamn story at this point.

And he still couldn’t understand it, couldn’t understand why Gold had been quoted or what he was talking about when Killian was one-hundred percent certain no one from the entire Los Angeles Kings organization would even glance his direction.

He also might have texted Regina when they landed in Calgary, just to make sure. She’d called him every single variation of _idiot_ that the English language allowed and after several lines of text message begging had, finally, told him in no unquestionable terms that the Kings were probably the last team in the league that would want to sign him next season.

“None of it’s true,” Killian said, flipping his wrist back towards Arthur as he tried to hand the paper back to him.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur answered. “If you don’t think I’ve been telling front office to offer you max since the start of the season then you’re even more stupid than you look.”  
  
“A charmer as always.” Arthur shrugged, crumpling the entire _Los Angeles Times_ sports section in one hand and tossing it over his shoulder into a well-placed trash can. “Did you practice that?”

“I did play sports at one point, you know, I’ve got reflexes or something.”  
  
“Did you call me over here just to prove that?”  
  
Arthur laughed, arms crossed over his chest again and his tie was hanging loose around his neck – like he’d been tugging on it for the better part of the night. “No,” he said. “I didn’t, but feel free to be impressed.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes and Arthur didn’t say anything else. He tried not to look as frustrated as he was – he should have grabbed his phone. “I’d really like to shower at some point before we leave, Arthur, so if this conversation has a point…”

“Of course it’s got a point, Jones,” Arthur said irritably. “I want to sign you. The team wants to sign you and while I try to pay as little attention to your life off the ice as possible, I’m pretty sure your girlfriend wants you to sign too. So what I’m getting at is you should probably make sure your team realizes all of that – especially the guys on your line.”  
  
Killian glanced over his shoulder – Will sprawled out one of the benches, phone held above his head as he continued to answer Belle’s worried texts and Robin pressed into the far corner, phone propped against his ear – and neither one of them looked up when he turned towards them.

“You’re good on the ice, Jones,” Arthur continued, tone brisk and gruff as Killian snapped his head back around. “As good as we could get when we’re trying to make some sort of Cup run with our jobs on the line. And I’d want you on any team I coach, but you should tell your line what you’re doing. Scarlet had to stop Locksley from killing you during warmups.”  
  
Killian sighed and traced along one of the scars on the back of his hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“Oh, I know you’re not, at least in theory. But those guys don’t. Talk to them and stop turning the puck over in the neutral zone. I don’t need any more postgame questions about you falling back into some kind of scoring skid. I’ve already got enough to worry about with Locksley’s drought and Scarlet’s leg.”  
  
“Yeah, ok,” Killian said, not quite sure what else he could contribute to this conversation.

“And take a shower, you look like shit.”

He did as instructed and things almost felt ok when he got on the plane, until Robin actually offered him the armrest in between the seats like that was something he normally did, instead of just throwing his forearm onto whatever material armrests were made of.

Plastic?

It was probably plastic.

“Nah,” Killian muttered. “You can have it.”  
  
“Ok,” Robin said and Killian wished he wasn’t actually sitting next to the window because it felt a bit like he was stuck.

“Will you guys shut up,” Will hissed from the other side of the aisle, leaning over a visibly perturbed Ariel. “Some of us are kind of exhausted.”

“God, Scarlet,” Ariel sighed, pushing against his shoulder and slapping at his jacket for good measure. “Will you get off me? You’re going to hurt yourself.”  
  
“Leaning over you is not going to somehow hurt my leg, A. And there’s no way you haven’t already gone through every possible test that I could have hurt my leg tonight. I am fine.”  
  
“Ok, first of all, we didn’t go through every test and you were the one who came to me complaining about how much your leg hurt as soon as you got off the ice.”  
  
“What?” Will snapped, sitting up and someone from the other end of the plane actually _shushed_ him. “That’s not even remotely what happened,” he hissed, not quite reaching the appropriate level of whispering for a team flight from Calgary to Vancouver at some point after midnight.

“Will you shut up,” Robin muttered, but he sounded a bit like he did when he was disciplining Roland and Will’s jaw audibly snapped shut. Ariel looked a little pleased with herself. “Some of us are actually exhausted and didn’t get much sleep over the weekend.”

“Oh,” Will laughed, leaning back across Ariel. She used both of her fists to punch against his back. “What exactly was going on in LA, Locksley?”

Killian rolled his eyes and sighed when Robin glared across the aisle – Ariel’s punches coming just a bit harder and more frequently than they probably should have considering Will had only just been cleared to start skating again.

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian said, practically growling out the words from his window seat.

That talk about how he wanted to stay in New York and how he was going stay in New York and how dedicated he was to the _team_ was going really well. He should probably apologize to them too.

He should make a list.

That was Emma’s job.

There weren’t any postgame text messages – just the usual from Liam and Elsa and Anna – and nothing but silence from the one person he wanted. He would have even taken a jab about the turnovers in the neutral zone or his plus-minus rating and he’d scored again – six-game streak now – but it didn’t really seem to mean anything if there weren’t postgame text messages.

“Sure, Cap,” Will said after a few moments. “Aye aye or whatever.”  
  
Robin didn’t say anything else for the rest of the flight, but Killian knew he hadn’t fallen asleep – no telltale signs of snoring or his arm inevitably falling off the armrest. He didn’t even use the armrest, hands crossed over his league-required jacket, and eyes straight ahead and neither one of them got the sleep they could probably use.

They landed at some indeterminate time in the middle of the night, stars dotting the sky when they were ushered off the plane and onto a team bus and into the team hotel and no one said anything about that story in the _Los Angeles Times._

Robin threw his bag into the corner of the room, stepping on the heels of his shoes as he moved and Killian resisted the urge to start yelling.

Or maybe apologize.

Definitely apologize.

He texted Emma instead –  _We’re here, Swan. No turbulence or anything. Smooth sailing._ He groaned when he read what he wrote, nearly punching a hole in the screen of his phone as he tried to hit delete as quickly as possible.

_Landed and in the hotel and you’re probably asleep, but let me know how today went when you wake up, ok? It went fine, better than, I’m sure._

No, that wasn’t good either. Killian sank onto the edge of the bed, only dimly aware that Robin was talking to him.

“You want first dibs at the sink, Cap, or you good for a second?” he asked.

“Hmmm?” Killian mumbled, glancing up at Robin and the very distinct bags under his eyes. He hadn’t noticed that with a visor blocking his face before. “No, no, I’m fine. I’ve uh…” He trailed off, pointing towards the phone and Robin just hummed in agreement.

“Ok, cool.”

He was gone half a moment later, sink running behind the closed door and Killian exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

_We’re in Vancouver. No game until tomorrow, which, obviously, you know. We’ve got walk-throughs in the afternoon, but nothing later, so maybe we can talk then? Let me know how today went. I love you, Swan._

He sent it before he could delete the whole, stupid thing again, throwing the phone into the corner of the bed for good measure.

The knock came just half a second before Killian was certain he was about to fall asleep – he hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet – and he ran a hand over his face when he moved towards the door.

Will and Ariel didn’t even wait for him to open it completely before they walked in, matching looks of determination on their face and something that almost looked like a bottle...of orange juice.

“What the hell are you doing?” Killian asked, stepping out the way just quickly enough that he didn’t get run over by either one of them.

“Taking matters into our own hands,” Will answered and Ariel nodded behind him. She was holding champagne.

“And what matters are those, exactly?”  
  
“We’re going to get you and dad back together.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Ariel rolled her eyes. “Please, Cap, it’s like watching divorced parents. It’s just depressing. And we’re not dealing with a whole western swing of this nonsense, so we’re nipping this in the bud right now.”

Will nodded – as if that settled _that_ – and Ariel made quick work of the champagne bottle. It unscrewed. “Where are your glasses?” Will asked. “There’s got to be glasses in here, right?”  
  
“Oh maybe we should have brought glasses with us,” Ariel mused, but Will brushed her off just as quickly.

“If they’re not on the desk, they’re probably in the bathroom,” Killian muttered, still a bit too stunned by whatever was happening in front of him to really put up much of a fight. It was almost three in the morning.

“Locksley,” Will shouted, kicking on the still-closed bathroom door. “Open up, we need glasses.”  
  
Robin swung the door open a second later, team-branded sweatpants and t-shirt on and a toothbrush still held in his hand. “What the fuck are you doing here? This isn’t your room.”  
  
“We’re parent-trapping you.”

“What?” Robin glanced towards Killian, eyes wide and he just shrugged in response.

“I have no idea what that even means,” he said.

“Mom and dad are fighting,” Ariel explained, squeezing past Robin to grab the hotel-provided cups sitting on the corner of the vanity. “And Scarlet and I have decided that’s completely unacceptable at this point in the season. So we come bearing alcohol and you two are going to talk out your problems.”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Robin muttered at the same time Killian asked “Where did you even find champagne?”  
  
“There’s a 24-hour liquor store up the block,” Ariel said.  
  
“Breaking curfew, Red?”

Ariel shrugged. “I’m not actually on the team. I don’t think Arthur can cut my shifts or anything. Also Scarlet knew where it was, so take that into account before you go passing judgement.”

“You guys have to get out of here,” Robin said, finally walking out of the bathroom and crashing onto his designated bed. “It’s the middle of the night.”  
  
“Not until we fix this,” Will argued. “It’s all weird when you guys are fighting. I don’t like it.”  
  
“Ah, well, if Scarlet doesn’t like it,” Killian muttered, earning a glare for his sarcasm. Ariel pushed a glass into his hand, eyebrows raised and a very particular look on her face – one that practically screamed _you owe me._

“Shut up, Cap.” Will hooked his foot around the leg of the one chair in the room, sinking onto it as Ariel perched on the edge of the desk behind him. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”  
  
Killian didn’t answer at first, tapping his finger against the top of the hastily-made mimosas and he’d barely had time to register that they’d made _mimosas_ in the middle of the night, parent-trapping them in a hotel room in Vancouver.

It was kind of overwhelming.

And the idea of even the possibility of leaving this stupid team was suddenly so absurd Killian could hardly believed he’d entertained the thought to begin with.

“Killian,” Ariel muttered, kicking out one of her legs towards him. “Come on, was any of that story true?”

“No,” he said. There was barely any orange juice in this mimosa. That was probably for the best. “None of it.”  
  
“He was quoted.”  
  
“I know he was.”  
  
“How’d that happen?”  
  
“If I had an answer for you, Red, I’d tell you.”  
  
“Probably to screw you over for other teams,” Robin said softly and Killian nearly dropped his champagne-heavy mimosa.

“What?”  
  
Robin shrugged. “That’s the first thing I thought of, is that not the first thing you thought of?”  
  
“No,” Killian admitted. “That’s…”  
  
“Insane?” Will suggested and Robin just shrugged again.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s not like it’s totally out of the realm of possibility. I mean, think about it, he tells a huge newspaper that he wants Cap and how great Cap is and that they’re totally interested and teams think they don’t have a chance."  
  
“I don’t know,” Killian sighed. “Gina said there were a lot of other teams who were interested.”  
  
“How many other teams?” Ariel asked and if it weren’t the middle of the night Killian might have been offended by the note of surprise in her voice.

He took a drink before he answered. “A lot.”  
  
“That’s not very specific.” Killian held his hand up in the air, but didn’t actually start going down the list. Or the teams that weren’t on the list. “Us?” Ariel continued.  
  
“I thought you weren’t on the team, Red.”  
  
“Shut up. Did they counter yet?”  
  
“There’s not anything to counter. No one’s actually offered yet and they probably won’t until the deadline.”

“So we haven’t actually made a move yet?” Will asked, eyes darting to a frozen Robin. “That’s nuts.”  
  
“Well, to be fair,” Killian sighed. “I didn’t really make much of a move either. Or tell Gina to. I was...uh, pretty convinced I wasn’t coming back.”  
  
The entire room went silent, drinks held tightly in respective hands and eyes staring at feet and Killian chewed on the inside of his lip, guilt and disappointment and nerves mixing with cheap champagne in the pit of his stomach.

“Why, though?” Robin asked and it felt like hours since any of them had spoken.

Killian lifted his head, turning completely to meet Robin’s gaze. “Why did I think I wasn’t coming back?” He downed the rest of the champagne, squeezing his eyes closed when it landed like a rock. “A lot of reasons.”  
  
“Us?” Ariel asked softly and the boulder of alcohol moved until it felt like it was stuck in the back of his throat.

“It sounds awfully immature when you say it out loud like that,” Killian said. “I just, I don’t know, we were supposed to win last year and we didn’t and then…”  
  
“You went to Colorado,” Robin finished. His champagne was also gone – walkthrough was going to be interesting tomorrow. Or later that afternoon. It was three in the morning. “And they’ve got a backyard there.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“You barely said two words about being out there when you got back. Scarlet and I knew something was up.”  
  
“Is that weird? Should I be concerned that that’s weird?”  
  
Robin actually laughed. “I don’t know, maybe. Is that where you wanted to go, though?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said and sitting up was actually proving to be a bit of a challenge when Ariel refilled his glass without even asking. “El and Liam weren’t pleased.”  
  
“They both knew?” Will exclaimed, practically leaping off the chair. “That’s bullshit, Cap.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you.”  
  
“What’d they say?” Ariel asked. She was the only one without a refilled glass and Killian was half certain this _whole_ thing had been her idea. He’d probably have to thank her at some point. If he ever remembered how to stand up or didn’t collapse from exhaustion on the ice the next morning.

“Exactly what you’d think,” Killian started. “There were threats of violence and punching me in the face, but I think they both knew it wasn’t actually going to happen.”  
  
“It’s not?” Will sputtered, gaze darting around the room like the reason for that was suddenly going to materialize out of thin air.

Ariel groaned, resting her empty glass on the desk behind her, and stared at Will in disbelief. “Are you really that dumb or just pretending?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Emma,” Robin said, sounding as if he were explaining the most obvious thing in the world. It kind of was.

Will’s eyes widened as soon as the words were out of Robin’s mouth and Killian fell back onto the bed, the glass in his hand shaking just a bit when he moved. His phone hadn’t made a sound since he’d thrown it in the corner and, really, he hadn’t expected it to – it was six in the morning in New York – but he thought, maybe…

No.

There was no maybe. There was just him – messing up and messing _this_ up and fuck the entire _Los Angeles Times._ And whoever showed Emma that story.

“What’d she say, Killian?” Ariel asked, sinking onto the mattress as well. He pulled his head up slightly, the overtired muscles in his neck protesting at the movement, and tried to shrug. It didn’t work.

“Nothing,” he said.

It wasn’t really a lie. He’d played the whole scene in the alley over and over in his head, felt every single syllable of every single word as keenly then as he had the night before and he was almost surprised he’d managed to skate, let alone put the puck in the back of the net when his mind was still in downtown Los Angeles.

He knew he should have told her before, but he’d changed his mind –  _she’d_ changed his mind – and it shouldn’t have even been a problem.

There shouldn’t have been a story.

The Rangers should have made a move by now. Or at least the start of a move. This champagne was horrible.

Ariel lifted her eyebrows skeptically and Robin made some sort of disbelieving noise before tapping his glass meaningfully at Will. “Fill up Cap’s too,” he added.

“If I drink any more of your shit champagne I’m not going to be able to lace up my skates tomorrow,” Killian muttered.

“See, that’s just wrong,” Will objected. “We go out of our way to parent-trap you and Locksley and then you insult our champagne. Pickings are slim at three in the morning, you know.”  
  
“Out of curiosity, in this situation which one of us is which parent?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
Robin laughed again – and it almost sounded genuine, the smile on his face not nearly as forced as the impassive looks he’d been shooting Killian for the better part of the last twenty-four hours. “Gina’s thinking about suing the _Times,_ ” he chuckled. “For defamation.”  
  
Will nearly fell off the chair and Killian downed his third glass of mimosa before he could even consider all the reasons he shouldn’t.

“I think it’s called something else in print,” Ariel pointed out.

“Libel,” Will added. “It’s libel in print. And Cap doesn’t even fit into that spectrum because he’s a public figure. They can write about whatever they want as long as it’s remotely feasible. And him going to LA is, apparently, remotely feasible.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“Not all of us went pro after freshman year. Some of us have degrees.”  
  
They laughed and the tension in the room seemed to fly out a window that absolutely wasn’t open. That was, of course, until Robin asked another question.

“She really didn’t say anything?” he murmured. “I mean with Los Angeles and everything.”

_If you get a good offer you should consider it._

The words were practically tattooed on the back of his eyelids this point, flashing in front of his face every time he blinked and he was a selfish bastard because he wanted everything all at once. He absolutely didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t get the game and Emma.

The world just didn’t work that way.

“No,” Killian repeated and the lie didn’t even sound remotely convincing. Ariel rested her hand on his leg, staring at him with so much sympathy he was certain it couldn’t actually be her.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. And probably better suited for Gina than me. She’s the one who talks to front office.”  
  
“She thinks it’s going to be fine,” Robbin added and Killian hadn’t expected that. “She finally gave up the truth last night after the story came out and, well, I was pissed at you for not telling any of us. Obviously. And then kind of mad at her for not telling me. Again, obviously. So she told me the truth and that you’d changed your mind.”  
  
“She didn’t tell you why?”  
  
“That one I figured out on my own. You noticed she tugs on the laces when she’s nervous?”

He shouldn't have had so much shitty champagne in such a short period of time because it wasn’t just sitting in his stomach or the back of his throat and Killian sat up before the room could actually start to spin.

He’d absolutely noticed.

And thought about that almost as much as the idea that Emma thought he should be looking at other teams.

“You should call her,” Ariel suggested.

“And say, what?” Will questioned, eyeing the now empty bottle of champagne critically. “I mean what’s he going to say that he hasn’t already?”  
  
“I don’t know. Tell her you love her an almost disgusting amount and she’s changed the whole world and you don’t know what you’d do without her.”  
  
“That’s laying it on a little thick isn’t it?” Robin cut in. “I mean that’s not really Cap’s style. He kind of broods.”  
  
“That’s just in front of us. Have you seen him look at Emma? He stares at her like she’s the center of the universe or something.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Killian muttered, words slurring just a bit and the room was spinning despite sitting up. Sitting up might have been a mistake. They drank a whole bottle of champagne in twenty minutes.

“And?” Ariel countered. “You look at Emma Swan like she’s the center of the universe. That’s just a fact.”

That was true. He did and she was and a slew of other sentimental nonsense that made a bit more sense several glasses of middle-of-the-night mimosa in. Killian could feel Robin’s stare on the side of his head and Ariel hadn’t actually moved her hand off his leg.

“Alright,” Robin announced and he was definitely the team dad. Killian tried not to laugh about that. “We’ve all made up, we’ve decided Killian is an idiot for even thinking about leaving New York and if he any of us get asked about his FA status, we just say we want him to come back here, agreed?”

Will and Ariel both nodded their head – which didn’t make much sense since no one was going to ask Ariel anything about his FA status, at least not in some sort of print or TV capacity – and she pulled her hand away from Killian’s leg to grab one of the pillows at the top of his bed.

“What are you doing?” Killian asked.

“If you think I’m walking back down the hallway to my room, you’ve got another thing coming. Come on, move over.”

Killian groaned, but that was as much of a fight as he was willing to put up, throwing another pillow in Will’s direction. Robin laughed again.

In the end, he found a spot on the floor, in between the two beds with promises from both Ariel and Robin that they wouldn’t actually step on him in the morning and Will stayed in the chair, mumbling something about _not moving_ and it might have been the quickest Killian had fallen asleep – without Emma tucked against his side – in months.

He woke up before his phone – which was probably for the best since the three other people in the hotel room probably would have yelled if they heard his alarm before they had to – grabbing it from underneath the pillow he’d managed to commandeer the night before.

Well, a few hours before.

Killian had fallen asleep easily, but the champagne had been shitty and his head felt as if it was going to snap in half as soon as he opened his eyes to find no less than five text messages, two voicemails and one very wordy e-mail from Regina waiting for him.

He ignored the text messages and the voicemail – trying to also ignore whatever his stomach was doing at the sudden realization that there was nothing from Emma – and clicked on the e-mail. She’d sent that last and was clearly determined to make sure he knew she didn’t appreciate being ignored.

_The actual coach of the Colorado Avalanche called me yesterday. On my phone. My cellphone. My actual cellphone. Not my work one. Don’t ask me how that happened, because I have no idea, but I just thought you should have some understanding of what I’m putting up with for you._

_Because the actual coach of the Colorado Avalanche called my actual cellphone yesterday to ACTUALLY tell me how impressed he is with your game and that he thinks you can do a lot of good things in mountain air._

_He used those words._

_If that’s not enough to get you to want to stay as far away from the coach of the Colorado Avalanche then I don’t know what is. Anyway, they want to start throwing out some numbers and they’re serious – both in the idea of the number throwing and how big those numbers are. I don’t even know where Colorado is getting this kind of money._

_I guess they’re willing to mortgage their entire team for you. Despite those garbage turnovers in the neutral zone last night. I hope Arthur yelled at you and then I hope Robin yelled at you too because he’s even more mad at you for all of this than I am._

_And I, at least, get paid for it._

_I need you to tell me what to say to Colorado. I tried to at least pretend like you were still interested in wasting your life with mountain air or whatever this coach was trying to sell me on, but if they come up with an even bigger number it might almost be something to consider. Maybe._

_Also Ruby Lucas is going to kill you as soon as you get back to New York, so be prepared for that._  
\- _R_

Killian read the message twice more before sighing softly and pushing off the floor. The door creaked slightly when he opened it, but it was still early and none of them moved when he pushed into the abandoned hallway, sinking onto the floor just outside the door.

He stared at his phone, eyes moving across the message again and his mind drifted back to the alley and Los Angeles and the way Emma’s eyes had ducked down when she’d tried to give him an out – _If you get a good offer you should consider it._

The Avs would give him more than the Rangers could. He wasn’t front office, but he wasn’t an idiot either – no matter what Regina said.

He knew how cap space worked and what Robin had signed for last year and they’d probably want to get Phillip off his rookie deal if he kept setting up the rest of them the way he had been. There wasn’t that much money in New York.

There wasn’t that much money anywhere else in the league.

Killian sighed, resting his head against the wall as he tried to take a deep breath. But his lungs felt tight and his mouth was dry and he’d be willing to stay in New York for pennies now.

We.

She’d used the word we and he was holding onto that no matter what, even if she didn’t answer his text messages or offer up any unknown facts about the entire Vancouver Canucks organization.

He’d lied about plenty of things in the last few months – had lied about plenty of things even when plied with alcohol the night before – but he hadn’t lied about her and, well, Ariel was right. He absolutely looked at Emma like she was the center of the universe.

And his fingers were moving across his phone screen before he could stop himself, typing out a number he only vaguely realized he’d memorized weeks before.

It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

_Hi, you’ve reached Emma Swan. I’m not here at the moment, but if you leave a message at the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can._

“Swan,” Killian said, voice scratchy from sleep and shitty champagne. “I just...I know you’re swamped and you’ve probably got more meetings with Zelena today, but, well, I just, I wanted to talk to you. And this swing couldn’t have come at a worse time and I sleep like shit when you’re not here and I love you. More than anything. And, well, that’s it. Really. I love you. We’ve got walkthroughs, but I’ll be around….”  
  
The voicemail cut him off, asking if he was satisfied with his message and Killian hung up before he could even be tempted to delete it.

None of that had been a lie.

He hit reply on Regina’s e-mail, far too aware that he’d probably get more voicemails for responding to that and not her actual calls, thumb racing across the screen as he typed out his answer.

_I’m not going Gina. Tell them that._

* * *

He tried not to think about it. Really. He did. It didn’t work very well – the weight of his silent phone and distinct lack of text messages practically making it all but impossible to move during walkthroughs and morning skate the next day.

Although that might have been the absolutely ridiculous amount of champagne he’d consumed in between games. Or maybe it was Robin’s constantly worried gaze, eyes lingering on Killian even after he’d skated to the other end of the ice and he could feel it even then, going through warmups in Vancouver without so much as anything from Emma.

And Killian wasn’t frustrated by that so much as he was disappointed in himself and how easily it had been to fuck everything up simply by trying to make sure he did the opposite.

Gina hadn’t responded to his e-mail, no update on on Colorado or New York or any of the dozen teams that, just a few weeks ago, had been willing to sign him well before the deadline.

It wasn’t just Robin staring at him either. Killian knew it would happen as soon as he got on the ice, was braced for the hit already, but that didn’t make him any less cautious when it came to lining up next to Humbert as soon as the puck dropped.

It didn’t make any of the hits hurt any less either – and there were a lot of them.

The first one made his breath catch, Humbert’s stick hitting just above the pads that covered his back and his shoulder blades, pushing Killian up against the boards in the corner of the zone. The second one hurt like hell – and got Humbert two minutes for slashing when the blade of his stick hit the one spot on Killian’s leg that didn’t have pads.

Humbert had been aiming for it. Killian didn’t blame him.

The third hit was absolutely going to leave a bruise, a cross-check that didn’t get called when Killian tried to move in front of the crease on a power play. Humbert didn’t stop hitting him, moving from his back down his thighs and then back up again for good measure, like he was trying to connect on a predetermined list of Killian’s less-padded body parts.

He probably was.

The whistle blew and Killian hadn’t even noticed that the puck had moved by his skate, finding its way past the Canucks goalie until the light when off and Humbert hit him again.

“Jesus Christ,” Killian sighed, spinning around so quickly he hit his own skates with ice. “Relax, I get the message.”  
  
Humbert shook his head and he was sweating, beads of moisture moving down his forehead towards the chin strap of his helmet and Killian nearly backed up under the force of his glare. “I honestly couldn’t care less,” Humbert hissed, knocking his stick against Killian’s ankle again.

“You’re going to get another penalty.”  
  
“Again. I don’t care.”

Killian groaned and one of the refs was blowing his whistle now, Phillip lingering just a few feet away by the faceoff circle. He tried to brush the rookie off, but that only seemed to draw him into the conversation.

“Everything ok, Cap?” Phillip asked, eyes falling on Humbert immediately. Humbert had, easily, five inches on Phillip.

“You got bodyguards now, Jones?” Humbert asked and the laughter in his voice made Killian’s grip tighten, eyes narrowing just a bit. “Where’s Scarlet? At least he’s got an almost threatening reputation.”  
  
“It’s fine, Rook,” Killian said. “Go change.”  
  
That one ref was still blowing his whistle shouting something that almost sounded like _if you’re going to fight, go ahead and do it, there’s still a game here._ Humbert lifted both his hands in the air, an unspoken challenge that Killian wasn’t particularly interested in.

“No,” Killian continued, shaking his head as he moved back towards his bench. “We’re not doing this. Back up Humbert.”  
  
“No, no, no,” Humbert argued quickly, tossing his stick to his side and the crowd actually _ooooohed._ Killian tried not to groan again. “We are absolutely doing this. Come on. Let’s go, you’ve got to take your gloves off, there are rules.”  
  
“I’m not fighting you, Humbert.”  
  
“Well, that’s too bad since I’m pretty certain I’m going to fight you.”  
  
He threw his gloves in the same direction as his stick and Killian closed his eyes, sighing softly – until he felt a fist collide with the side of his face. And then something kind of snapped. Fuck, that hurt.

Humbert had the front of his jersey in his hand, tugging on the laces until he pulled it away from Killian’s pads and he was actually shaking him, trying to get him off his skates before he could land another punch. Killian shook his right hand, glove falling onto the ice and the crowd, somehow, got louder.

His pulse thudded in his ears, or maybe that was just Humbert’s fist, and Killian felt his own fingers collide with a jaw, wincing slightly at the contact. He tried to avoid using his left hand – far too aware of what Ariel would say if he did – keeping it trained at his side and Humbert didn’t seem to care, simply intent on hitting Killian’s face as many times as possible before the refs intervened.

It took forever, far longer than any fight Killian had ever been involved in before and he landed a few more blows to Humbert’s chest before he heard the whistles and felt hands on the back of his jersey, tugging him towards the penalty box.

“Here,” the ref said, tossing Killian the one glove he’d managed to get off before the league official closed the door.

They both got five minutes and if Emma had been mad before, she was probably furious now – this seemed to decidedly fall into the realm of rescue. Killian slumped down slightly, earning a curious glance from the _watcher_ in the box and even Humbert looked over at the sound.

“You alright?” he asked.

“You’re asking me that now? You just tried to take my head off.”  
  
“Nah, not really. It could have been a lot worse.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I mean you’re not concussed or anything. And you absolutely deserved it. I saw the story.”  
  
“Everyone saw the story,” Killian muttered bitterly and Humbert chuckled softly under his breath. “I’m not going.”  
  
“Oh, I know that.”  
  
That caught him by surprise. He sat up a bit straighter, ignoring whatever the league guy was doing with his face, slightly scandalized that Killian and Humbert were talking in the middle of five-minute majors. “How?” Killian asked.

“Because you look at Emma like she’s the goddamn sun.”

They won again and Arthur didn’t actually break any whiteboards in another visitor’s locker room, but Killian had barely sat down, groaning softly to try and untie his laces before Ariel practically pulled him off the bench.

He hadn’t quite memorized the Canucks visitor’s locker room, but Ariel very clearly had a plan, muttering under her breath as she kept her hand trained on Killian’s back, pushing him down a short hallway and around a corner until he nearly collided with a table pressed up against the wall.

“Sit,” Ariel commanded, nodding towards the table and Killian hadn’t noticed she actually had a bag of ice in her other hand. She nearly threw the bag of ice at him, thrusting her hand forward, but she seemed to think twice before the bag collided with the bruise Killian was certain had blossomed just underneath his eye.

“It’s fine, Red,” he muttered. There was that word again.

“Sure it is. Did you know he was going to try and kill you?”  
  
“He didn’t.”

“Your face says otherwise.” She moved with a speed that almost impressed him, grabbing another roll of gauze and pushing his hand against his cheek until he hissed in air through his teeth, grimacing at the cold against the bruise. “Hand,” Ariel continued.

“Which one?”  
  
“Either one.”  
  
Killian held out his right hand and Ariel lifted one eyebrow, eyeing him critically, but she didn’t actually ask the question he knew she wanted to. He appreciated that. “He wasn’t trying to kill me,” Killian said. “You know that, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ariel admitted. “Still didn’t make it any less scary.”  
  
“You worried about me, Red?”

“No,” she said quickly, but she couldn’t quite look him in the eye either. “She ever call you back?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Killian!”  
  
He shook his head. “Nah, but she’s busy. She’s trying to save the game.”  
  
“I heard you did that. Got her a spot at the Piers.”  
  
“Who told you that?”  
  
“Gina. And told me that the Avs are ready to offer you a ridiculous amount of money to come out there. You tell El and Liam that?”  
  
“Gina needs to learn how to stop talking,” Killian said, shifting the ice against his cheek. God, this bruise was enormous.

“She’s worried too. And she didn’t tell Robin, that’s something.”  
  
“I guess,” he admitted. “And no, I didn’t tell El or Liam. I’m not going to Colorado. They don’t want me to go to Colorado.”  
  
“That’s not true at all.” Killian narrowed his eyes – as much as he could with a bag of ice pressed up against his face and Ariel groaned, tapping on his left hand once she’d finished wrapping up his right. “It’s not,” she said. “They just want you to be happy. And you are. Happier than I can remember seeing you ever.”  
  
The argument was on the tip of his tongue, the certainty that he’d messed up _again_ and Emma hadn’t called back and Graham Humbert hitting him was nothing compared to what Ruby Lucas would do to him as soon as the team plane landed in New York next week.

He didn’t get a chance. His phone rang instead.

Emma.

He froze, eyes wide and ice practically pushing its way into his cheek painfully as he kept staring at his phone.

“God, Killian, answer her,” Ariel shouted. He nodded slowly, reaching out towards the phone and it kind of felt like he’d just drank another bottle of shitty champagne. Killian’s hand shook when he picked up the phone, far too aware of Ariel’s eyes on him and she muttered some excuse about checking on Will’s leg before she sprinted back towards the locker room.

“Swan?” he asked and his voice was shaking too.

“Hey,” she said softly, the sound of cars and maybe an ambulance in the background.

“Where are you? You’re not still at the Garden are you?”  
  
“It’s almost three in the morning here.”  
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Emma laughed under her breath and he could _nearly_ see the smile on her face. “No, I’m not. I almost left at a normal time actually.”  
  
“What’s normal in this situation?”  
  
“Before midnight.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“What? That’s an honest answer.”  
  
“Swan, what time?”  
  
“Like eight,” she said. “Eight thirty. Ish. I had to meet with Zelena to break down the schedule for everything at the Piers.”  
  
“Did that go alright?” Killian asked and Emma laughed again, humming in the back of her throat. A car honked and it was never that loud inside Mary Margaret’s loft. “Where are you, Swan? For real.”  
  
“I’m in the hallway.”  
  
“The hallway?”  
  
“It’s almost three in the morning,” she said again.

“Which would be a fair point if you were actually asleep,” Killian muttered, smiling in spite of himself when he heard Emma’s soft, frustrated sigh. He’d fallen back into _rescue_ rather easily. “And you didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Which one, there’s been so many.”  
  
“You’re the one who called me,” he pointed out, squeezing his eyes closed when he realized what he’d said. “That sounded worse than I wanted it to.”  
  
“No, no, I know what you meant.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what?”  
  
“And how did your meeting with Zelena go? Did Hopper give you the good rink?”  
  
She exhaled into the phone and Killian wondered if she’d been holding her breath too, his lungs were practically burning with the oxygen he was keeping in. “Zelena went fine,” Emma said. “She thinks the Piers are a good idea too.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“That’s another question.”  
  
“And one I’d love an answer to.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma answered. “I do. It’s an incredible space and Hopper was more excited than just about anyone in the front office has been about any of it. He showed me your signed photos three different times.”  
  
“Jeez,” Killian sighed.

“It was nice. Bordering close to tooth-rottingly sweet.”  
  
“Is that why you called?” Emma made a noise, clicking her tongue and Killian pressed the ice against his cheek again. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“That’s why,” Emma said.

“What was that, Swan?”  
  
“That’s why I called,” she explained and her voice didn’t shake, but he could hear the nerves there on the other side of a totally different country. “He shouldn’t have hit you. You didn’t want to fight him, I saw you shake your head.”  
  
“You watched the game?” He absolutely shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was.

“Of course. I...I watched the other night too. I just…”  
  
“I know, love,” Killian said, voice catching just before the nickname or the endearment or whatever they were calling it. Emma made a noise on the other end, a mix between a sigh and something that was very obviously disappointment.

“It was a good goal. Yesterday’s, I mean. Like a ridiculous shot, even with the turnovers in the neutral zone.”  
  
“You and Arthur should team up with your post-game speeches, Swan. He wasn’t very happy with the turnovers either.”  
  
“Good goal though and you totally screened on that power play, that’s why Phillip scored.”  
  
“Ah, it was a good shot.”  
  
“So self-deprecating. Seems a bit out of character”  
  
“No, Swan,” Killian argued. “Pretty par for the course if we’re being honest.”  
  
She made that disappointed noise again and Killian felt his grip loosen on the ice that, somehow, hadn’t started to melt yet. “Is your face ok though?” Emma asked. “And your hand?”  
  
“My face is fine if not just a bit purple and both of my hands are also fine. If not a little bruised as well.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what?”

“This is my fault. Graham he...I mean he hated Neal and he couldn’t really beat him up and I didn't really even think about it…”  
  
“You shouldn’t have,” Killian said quickly, trying to erase that worry in her voice. “And you don’t. I’m fine. I knew it was going to happen before I got on the ice.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
Fuck. Fuck and shit and then fuck again. The worry in Emma’s voice was gone, but it had been replaced by something else entirely – anger. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Humbert may or may not have suggested he was ready to defend your honor over the weekend,” Killian said quickly, trying to rush over the words as fast as possible.

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I don’t need him to do that.”  
  
“Trust me, Swan, no one is more aware of that than I am.”  
  
“Is that why you didn’t want to fight him?”  
  
“No,” Killian answered immediately. “I didn’t want to fight him because I knew he was right.”

The phone went dead or maybe she hung up on him and Killian wasn’t certain which one was worse – he pulled the phone away glancing down at the screen and neither one was right. She just hadn’t answered him.

“Swan,” he said cautiously. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
He could hear her breath catch and she must have stood up because the floor creaked loudly in the background. She was pacing. “Don’t do that,” she whispered.

“What?”

“You _never_ call me that. I hate it.”  
  
Killian bit his lip and, well, if his whole face was going to be bruised he might as well cut up his lip too. He groaned when he slumped forward, the bruises he hadn’t actually seen on his back and his chest protesting at the movement.

He didn’t care.

“Ok,” he said, not sure he remembered another word in the entire English language.

And he’d called her _Emma_ when he meant something, when he couldn’t linger in nicknames and sarcasm and the bravado that she’d seen through from the very beginning. Every single one of his internal organs clenched at the idea that it didn’t mean quite as much as he thought it had.

“You’re really ok?” Emma asked. He could hear her key in the lock. “Did Ariel look at your hand, yet?”  
  
“Is that why you called, Swan?”

“I was worried.”  
  
That should have helped – his organs should have returned to their normal and slightly healthier positions, but they didn’t. They stayed as clenched as ever, Emma’s voice not quite ringing honest even several thousand miles away.

Killian closed his eyes and shifted the ice again as Mary Margaret’s door closed behind Emma. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Yeah, sure, Swan.”  
  
“The Piers are really good. It’s a great view and enough space. We’re going to send out official announcements later this week.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
“Right,” she said, clicking her teeth on the final letter.

“It’s late.” He was just telling her facts now. She’d told him it was almost three in the morning twice already. She knew what time it was. And he couldn’t remember a single conversation, even that first one in the back corner of Eric’s restaurant, that was quite as difficult as this one. Goddamn western swing.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to kiss Emma Swan.

He wanted a fucking contract extension.

“Also true,” Emma said, keeping her voice low with a presumably sleeping David and Mary Margaret just a few feet away. “You better go before Ariel attacks you in the middle of the Rogers.”  
  
“Already done. She was wrapping my hand when you called.”  
  
“You needed to get your hand wrapped?”

Killian was almost positive he didn’t mistake the change in tone, didn’t imagine the way her voice caught just a bit and maybe, _maybe,_  he hadn’t messed this up completely. Hope was a strange feeling in the middle of the Rogers Arena.

Or it was until Emma spoke again.

She took a deep breath and she needed her own apartment if only because the couch in Mary Margaret’s was absolutely some sort of torture device, creaking loudly when Emma sat down. “I’ve got to go,” she said again.

“Ok,” Killian muttered.

“I’ll, um, safe flight to Edmonton.”  
  
“I’ll let you know when we land?”  
  
“You don’t have to do that. You’ll probably be busy.”  
  
“It’s ok, Swan. I want to.”  
  
“Whatever you want to do.” Killian sighed again and Ariel had reappeared at some point, something that looked a hell of a lot like pity in her expression. “I’ll talk to you later?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The line went dead and he didn’t throw his phone at the wall, which felt as much like a victory as the one he’d actually been a part of earlier that night.

“You ok?” Ariel asked, approaching him slowly and tugging the half-melted ice away from his cheek.

“Fine.”

She didn’t call him out for the lie it absolutely was and Killian didn’t argue when she wrapped up his left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, hey there - here are more words. I've just been like...spamming you guys with all the words this week (mostly because I've got, approximately, 82 games next week and no idea when I'll be able to breathe, let alone write) and I can't thank you guys enough for liking all the words. 
> 
> As always, @laurenorder makes this so much better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	30. Chapter 30

She was mumbling.

Or talking to herself.

Definitely talking to herself and that was kind of depressing and just a bit alarming because everything was going to be fine. Mary Margaret had promised it would be and Emma believed Mary Margaret by default. Ruby had promised too and Merida as well and Emma should probably trust Merida the most because she’d been charged with keeping track of the schedule that night and making sure she didn’t have some sort of Casino Night mental breakdown in the back corner of Gotham Hall.

God, this place was enormous.

Emma knew that going in. She knew that when the season started and they told her Casino Night was _hers_ in some sort of professional-possession type of way, but now it didn’t just look enormous, it _felt_ enormous – even chock full of those tables they’d gotten out of storage a few days before and there were fans filing in through the enormous doors with comically large handles and the team was supposed to start getting there in a few minutes, a string of town car arrivals that were listed, in order, on that schedule Merida was carrying around.

“It’s fine,” Emma muttered, leaning against the wall in the far corner of the main room, tugging on the laces around her wrist out of habit. “It’s all going to be fine.”  
  
“Are you having some sort of episode?” Ruby asked and Emma jumped when when she met her gaze. “Uh oh, you’re totally talking to yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.”  
  
Ruby twisted her eyebrows and even crossed her arm, tapping the toe of one of her undoubtedly expensive shoes. “Yuh uh,” she said, sounding as unconvinced as Emma felt. “You know if you keep using that word, it’s going to lose some of its meaning.”   
  
Emma groaned, resisting the urge to sink down the wall she was leaning on until she’d crumpled up into some sort of incredibly unprofessional heap in the corner of this absolutely enormous building.

And Ruby was totally right – she’d used _fine_ so many times in the last two weeks that Emma wasn’t convinced it was actually a word anymore, just an idea she’d come up with as some sort of coping device.

She mumbled under her breath again, sighing softly when her phone buzzed in her hand and Mulan wanted to know if she should be outside waiting for team arrivals or taking pictures of fans and Emma didn’t really want to answer.

She wanted to go home. She just wasn’t really sure where that was – and that might have been even more concerning than the madness she was quite obviously falling into if she kept talking to herself.

She missed the idea of a home and the feeling she’d gotten whenever she’d walked through the door of that apartment on Amsterdam Ave, far too big for just one person, but maybe just big enough for two. She’d lost control of her thoughts.

Fine, it seemed, was a much bigger lie than Emma had even realized it was.

She missed the pillows.

Emma missed Killian. And that was the first time she’d actually allowed herself to think that. She was actually going to slide down the wall.

Ruby was still staring at her, eyes narrowing just a bit when Emma’s thumb tugged on the laces that didn’t match her very fancy, very expensive dress covered in theme-appropriate fringe. Emma sighed again, answering Mulan – because she was a goddamn professional and the guys weren’t supposed to start getting there for another fifteen minutes, at least.

She had fifteen minutes to organize her entire life.

“So,” Ruby said slowly, moving next to Emma to brush her shoulder against her. “On a scale of one to ten how not fine is fine?”  
  
“Did those words make sense in that order?” Emma asked.

“The fact that you have to actually ask me that leads me to believe you’re sitting somewhere around one on the fine list.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re saying to me.”   
  
“Sure,” Ruby said sarcastically, dragging four letters out until they sounded like the entire Gettysburg Address. “You know I talked to him.”   
  
“Jeez, Rubes I can’t do this right now.”   
  
Ruby eyed her skeptically, those stupid eyebrows doing something completely stupid again, and Emma groaned loudly, not even caring about the growing crowd of fans and season tickets just a few feet away.

“When exactly would you like to do it?” Ruby asked.

“Not during the biggest charity event this team does every year,” Emma answered and her phone was vibrating again. Mary Margaret and David were there.

“I thought that was your game.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“I talked to Regina too,” Ruby continued, seemingly unimpressed with any of the noises Emma was making in protest of this conversation.

“I don’t care.”  
  
Emma was getting very good at lying – or at least she thought she was until Ruby actually laughed in her face, a loud, obnoxious sound that probably shook some of the paint off the very fancy walls of that very fancy building.

_Fine. Fine. Fine. Everything was going to be fine._

“Yeah,” Ruby laughed, nodding towards Mary Margaret and David when they somehow worked their way towards the other side of the room in a few seconds flat. “That’s absolutely why you keep tugging on those laces or why you haven’t taken those laces off despite the fact that everyone on this stupid team read _The Times_ story.”  
  
“It wasn’t true,” Emma reasoned and that seemed to catch Ruby by surprise. “He’s not going to LA.”   
  
“Yeah, he said that too. Then what’s the problem here?”   
  
Emma didn’t answer, just closed her eyes and shook her head, plastering the same almost-honest smile she’d had on her face for the last two weeks.

They’d swept the western swing – and Killian had points in nine of his last ten games, snapping Robin’s goal drought when he set him up in front of the net against the Oilers. The tabloids were going nuts.

Emma read about it that morning, the back page of _The Post_ claiming Killian Jones was _The King of New York_ just a month out of the trade deadline and the Rangers were still sitting in the first Wild Card, closing in on the Blue Jackets for third place in the Metro.  

And she couldn’t remember him playing as well as he had in the last two weeks, some sort of _other level_ talent that had Ruby working overtime with all of the media requests for one-on-one interviews as soon as they got back to New York.

Which might have explained why, the three days they were actually in New York – a home game against the Caps coming in the middle of the road trip – Emma hadn’t actually seen him any more than in passing, a flash of dark hair and blue eyes moving out of the locker room as both Ruby and Regina tugged him from interview to interview.

Or, maybe, Emma was just a giant coward who’d actually overscheduled herself during those three days so she didn’t have some sort of emotional reaction in the middle of Madison Square Garden.

It was  _fine._

And, well, she’d totally needed to work those days – she had to finish prep for Casino Night and there were an absurd amount of auction items, not to mention another meeting with Hopper at the Piers and a meeting with Zelena about the meeting with Hopper.

Emma was busy. Too busy for emotions. And she was going to pull her laces apart if she kept tugging on them.

“You’re an idiot, you know that,” Ruby said sharply and Emma’s eyes widened out instinct.  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“An idiot. And you’re not going to be able to schedule yourself out of the conversation tonight. You’re going to have to figure this out.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma said quickly and Ruby laughed in her face.   
  
“Sure.”   
  
The room was starting to fill up and Mary Margaret was rushing towards Emma, eyes scanning her hair to make sure none of the several thousand bobby pins had fallen out of place. “You look incredible,” Mary Margaret announced to no one in particular and her eyes were just a little bit glossy when she met Emma’s gaze.

“Jeez, Reese’s, you saw me a couple of hours ago.” Emma said, not quite able to stop herself from laughing. “You’re the one who did my hair.”  
  
“And your makeup.”   
  
“And my makeup.”   
  
“I know, I know, but your dress fits into the theme so well and your hair hasn’t fallen out of place yet and you look really good.”   
  
Emma smiled – and it almost, _almost_ felt legitimate – but then she remembered everything she had to do and everything she definitely didn’t want to do and there wasn’t really a way to avoid either one. Mary Margaret, however, didn’t move, just pulled Emma’s fingers away from her wrist and squeezed – tightly.

“Did Ruby tell you she thinks you’re an idiot yet?” Mary Margaret asked, something that almost resembled amusement flashing across her face.

Emma’s mouth hung open, breath rushing out of her in one quick, vaguely unprofessional exhale, and she didn’t have time for this. Her friends, however, did not seem to care. And maybe she hadn’t been quite as fine as she’d promised.

Maybe she was somewhere in the realm of vaguely terrified and that was vaguely overwhelming.

“Did you guys coordinate on this?” Emma asked, eyes darting between her two friends and the matching looks of not-quite-innocent on their faces. “Oh my God, you did, didn’t you? Was there a schedule? Let Ruby get in there first, get the insults out of the way, the slightly abrasive start so I was more receptive to Reese’s good cop scheme?”  
  
“It’s not a scheme,” Mary Margaret muttered and David scoffed under his breath. That earned him a glare from all three of them.

“It’s not really, Em,” Ruby said and Emma got the distinct impression she was being placated. She felt like one of Mary Margaret’s fourth graders. She’d kind of been acting like one. “We just...you know might have talked about it a little bit.”  
  
“Sounds like you’ve been talking to just about anyone who will listen,” Emma accused. “Where’s Mer? I need a drink.”   
  
Mary Margaret looked disappointed – as if the idea of staging some sort of Emma Swan intervention in the middle of her charity event without alcohol was a good idea. Ruby just kept glaring at her.

“It’s not like that, Emma,” Mary Margaret said softly as David waved down one of the waiters who’d started circling the room. He handed Emma a glass, doing his best to look supportive without Mary Margaret actually noticing and it didn’t really work.

Ruby kicked at his ankles.

“No?” Emma challenged, downing half her champagne in one gulp. Mary Margaret’s eyes widened. “Because that’s absolutely what it feels like.”  
  
“Well, you’re being stupid,” Ruby reasoned. She didn’t drink her champagne as quickly as Emma did, but they’d both need refills in a few minutes if they kept going like they were. “I talked to him. I talked to Regina. No one from the Kings has even talked to him.”   
  
Her champagne was gone. “David, I need more to drink.”

He tried to move, but Mary Margaret tugged on the back of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him up short before he’d even gotten a complete step away. “No,” she said sharply and Emma made a face, glancing at a suddenly repentant looking David.

“Teacher voice,” Emma mumbled.

“Emma, I’m serious.”  
  
“I can tell.”   
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t the sarcastic expression it had been on Ruby’s face. And that probably came from four years of college and a decade of being able to read each other’s minds and Emma still hadn’t left the loft, hadn’t even tried to leave the loft because the loft kind of felt like home too.

Fine was somewhere sitting out on the sidewalk at this point – probably getting run over by the players who were scheduled to start arriving at that very moment.

Emma’s shoulders sagged, a fresh glass of champagne pushed into the hand that wasn’t holding an empty glass of champagne and she shot a grateful look David’s direction. He winked at her.

“He wants to stay,” Mary Margaret said softly, but Emma heard them as clearly as if they’d been shouted at her. It kind of felt that way.

“Ok.”  
  
“Emma.”   
  
“I know, Reese’s. These are all things I’m aware of, painfully so, but that doesn’t mean they’re an option!”   
  
Her voice cracked on the last word and Emma felt three pairs of vaguely stunned eyes land on her face. She bit her lip and stared at her shoes – red, they matched her dress. And she absolutely hadn’t bought a red dress because he’d noticed the red dress in the restaurant that very first night.

Emma Swan wasn’t a sentimental fool.

She was just the biggest liar in the entire world.

Mary Margaret’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ and Ruby scuffed her heel along the tiled floor and Emma licked her lips before she could will herself to look back up.

“It’s fine,” Emma whispered and Ruby made a noise that sounded like a mix between a groan and a scoff.

“You tell him any of that?” Ruby asked. “Because I promise he doesn’t know.”  
  
“You didn’t need to yell at him for me.”   
  
“I didn’t. I just spoke with very direct words and a very specific focus. At least I didn’t punch him in the face and get a five-minute major for it.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but that knot of _whatever_ that had been sitting in the pit of her stomach for the last two weeks, three days and, somewhere around, six hours, seemed to loosen just a little bit. She, at least, felt like she could take a deep breath.

That was, however, until the lights in the hall dimmed and the fans that had filed in in the last few minutes exploded into cheers and the TV broadcast crew started announcing players by name and position as they took their predetermined spots on a stage that cost an absolutely ridiculous amount of money to rent.

Mary Margaret’s fingers found Emma’s arm, wrapping tightly around her wrist and pressing the laces against her skin and neither one of them tried to pull away from each other – four years of college and a decade of _this,_ the kind of support Emma hadn’t ever really allowed herself to believe in, appearing just when she needed it the most.

David’s hand fell on her shoulder and Emma almost breathed easily as they continued making their way down the roster, Ruby moving just on the edge of her vision.

And fine didn’t feel like a complete lie.

He was last.

Of course.

Emma gulped the rest of her champagne, appreciating the soft buzz that she felt in the back of her mind and maybe her veins and, _God,_ he looked good.

The tux fit perfectly, but it wasn’t black, it was _navy_ and there was a pocket square and a tie that Emma kind of already wanted to tug off and she probably should have talked to him before Casino Night. He looked nervous, the fingers on his left hand tapping out an impatient rhythm while he stood in front of the crowd and listened to a list of his most recent accomplishments, that back page flashing up on the screen behind him.

“You did that on purpose,” Emma accused, leaning around Mary Margaret to glare at Ruby who just shrugged in response. She’d been in charge of one thing – getting clips and photos for the screen behind that ridiculously expensive stage – and it shouldn’t have surprised Emma that she’d pulled _The Post_ back page from that morning.

“I’m pleading the fifth,” Ruby answered easily.

“Yeah, that’s not how that works,” David laughed and his hand tightened on Emma’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to realize he’d done it.

The TV broadcasters announced the _official_ start of Casino Night – as if it hadn’t been going on this entire time, every single moment of the entire goddamn thing planned by Emma – and the players moved towards the tables they’d been assigned and the crowd was probably going to cheer for the rest of the night.

“Boss,” Merida shouted, jogging towards them with a clipboard in her hand and a headset pressing down on her curls.

“Still on schedule?” Emma asked.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, everything is good. The guys that are supposed to be at the tables are at the tables and then some of them are doing that Instagram thing we set up and the stragglers are auctioning things.”

“Instagram thing?” Mary Margaret repeated and Emma knew she didn’t imagine the note of pride in her voice.  
  
“We’re making them pose. You know like they do on the award shows? They’ve all been told to act as ridiculous as possible.”   
  
“That’s a really good idea.”   
  
“It happens from time to time.”   
  
“All the time,” Mary Margaret said, squeezing Emma’s forearm again.

Emma rolled her eyes, but she could still feel that buzz in the back of her head and she was half certain it wasn’t because of the champagne. “So if we’re all on schedule, what’s the problem, Mer?”  
  
Merida pressed her lips together and Emma tried not to let her impatience show on her face. “There’s a couple asking for you.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“Van...something.”   
  
Emma bit her lip tightly and, now, four pairs of curious eyes were staring at her and she could use some more champagne.

She hadn’t forgotten – not really. She’d sent the tickets before the All-Star break, had gotten an actual thank you note mailed to her office from Mrs. Vankald after, but Emma hadn’t really considered the possibility of seeing them during Casino Night, certain, when she sent the tickets, that she’d have a few other things going on.

She hadn’t considered the possibility that she’d come into Casino Night riding two weeks, three days and, now, closer to seven hours, of avoiding Killian Jones. Except for that one phone call, but Emma wasn’t certain anyone else knew about that.

She certainly hadn’t told anyone about that.

“They were wondering if you were around,” Merida continued slowly, staring at Emma like she was some sort of emotional bomb.

It kind of felt that way.

“Ok,” Emma said quickly and maybe a bit breathlessly, but she didn’t pull her arm away from Mary Margaret.

Ruby moved before any of them, shooting Mary Margaret a conspiratorial glare that all but confirmed Emma’s suspicions that they’d _planned something,_ and slung her arm around Merida’s shoulders. “C’mon, Mer,” she said. “Let’s, uh, let’s go shout things at the guys while they try to pose for the internet.”  
  
Merida stared at Emma, clearly waiting for further instructions, and she tried to make sure her voice didn’t shake when she spoke. “It’s fine, Mer,” Emma said, wincing slightly at _that_ word. “We’re all on schedule, go see what’s happening out front and I’ll check on the auction after I say hi to the Vankalds.”   
  
Mary Margaret actually gasped and Emma’s stomach did something she wasn’t sure was medically possible, pressing her heels into the floor so she didn’t run – again. “It’s fine, Mer,” she repeated. “Seriously.”   
  
“If you say so.”   
  
“I just did.”   
  
Ruby made a face, lower lip sticking out slightly as she pulled Merida back towards the front doors, shouting, “Don’t be an idiot, Emma,” over her shoulder.

Emma still didn’t move. “You invited his parents?” Mary Margaret asked softly, tapping her thumb meaningfully against Emma’s wrist.

“I mean, not technically,” Emma argued.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“And they want to talk to you,” David pointed out.

Emma’s neck cracked when she moved her head back, staring at the ceiling like that would, somehow, help her. “Well, I haven’t seen them since Christmas.”  
  
“And haven’t talked to Killian in weeks.”   
  
“Rude.”   
  
“Honest.”   
  
“Have you guys just been plotting these conversations since I got back from LA?” Emma asked and neither one of her friends had moved away from her side. There was a cliché in there somewhere.

“No,” Mary Margaret said and David made a noise that wasn’t quite the disagreement it probably should have been.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. It’s almost nice. Almost.”  
  
“It’s super nice, Emma, and you know it,” David said. “And it’s not like you’re the only one who’s upset and just a bit terrified.”   
  
His eyes widened as soon as the words were out of his mouth – like he’d just given up state secrets. “Wait, what?” Emma snapped and her head was on a swivel at this point, bouncing between Mary Margaret and David and both of them had squeezed their eyes shut.

“Reese’s,” Emma continued. “What did you guys do?”  
  
“I didn’t do anything,” Mary Margaret promised, finally letting go of Emma’s arm so she could hold her hands up in the air, pleading innocence with one, quick movement. “This has all been David.”   
  
“Thanks a lot,” he muttered and Mary Margaret didn’t drop her hands. “To be fair, it’s not like I sought him out. He came to me.”   
  
Emma’s heart had fallen on the ground and her stomach was there too and maybe her jaw because it had dropped open so quickly it actually was starting to hurt. “What?” Emma whispered.

David smiled sadly at her, pulling her against his chest without a word and he couldn’t really cup the back of her head – Mary Margaret’s quick gasp about _her hair_ making him rethink the movement almost immediately – but he wrapped both his arms around her and held on tightly and that was enough.

“He texted me,” David muttered. “And called and asked what he should do and if you were ok. He’s worried you’re not ok.”  
  
“What?” She needed to come up with another word.

“I think you terrified him just a bit, Em.”  
  
“But….what? I mean, how?”   
  
“Are you serious?”

Mary Margaret made a noise, smacking at David’s shoulder slightly. “Emma,” she said slowly and the teacher voice was back. “He could probably go anywhere in the league, right?” Emma nodded. “He doesn’t want to. You’ve changed that.”  
  
And somewhere in the back of her mind, Emma knew Mary Margaret was right – knew Killian had told her the same exact thing in that alley in Los Angeles – but two weeks of feeling like she was walking on the edge of something had left Emma without much confidence in the NHL’s free agent market.

“He looks at you like you are...everything,” Mary Margaret continued. “You just have to believe that.”  
  
Emma scoffed and they’d gotten to the center of the issue in a way that she hoped they never would. She did – and that was why she’d run.

Emma didn’t do maybe’s and hopefully’s and max-deal negotiations. She did schedules that she had memorized for the better part of the last two weeks.

She wanted something certain and Killian Jones was far from certain.

“Why didn’t you tell me he called?” Emma asked, staring at David.

He shrugged. “Would it have made much of a difference?”  
  
“Probably not.”   
  
“You were mad, Em. And so disappointed you practically reeked with it and I know you. You ate an entire box of pop tarts in two days. That’s, like, other level. So he called me and I told him you’d be fine eventually and then they had to go back on the road and he couldn’t really do anything, so there didn’t seem to be much of a point in adding to your pile of very obvious worries.”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
“You are a horrible liar.”

“Is that why you’ve made pancakes every other night? Because you totally knew?”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“And bought that extra box of hot chocolate,” Mary Margaret added.

Emma laughed under her breath and the Vankalds were making their way towards them now – God she was the worst girlfriend in the world. Oh, fuck, was she still a girlfriend? She hoped so.

“How do you guys do this?” Emma asked suddenly, head snapping up almost painfully.

“Do what?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Be so certain...in each other? I mean you guys turned around one day and just knew. How is that even possible?”  
  
“That’s not what happened.”   
  
“I was there.”   
  
“Well, ok,” Mary Margaret admitted. “It kind of happened that way. But you’re forgetting David being a jerk that whole semester and it’s not like it’s perfect. You think I’m just ok with him going out and maybe getting shot every day?”   
  
Emma’s eyes widened and she’d never heard Mary Margaret be so blunt in her entire life. “I’m not,” Mary Margaret continued. “I am terrified. I jump every time my phone rings while he’s on patrol. Even when I know he’s sitting at his desk. He could leave and just never come back.”   
  
“So what do you do?”   
  
“Believe.”   
  
“You make it sound so easy,” Emma sighed.

“It’s not. It’s not even in the realm of easy, but if you want this, Emma, the way he seems to, then you’ve got to let yourself believe. It’ll be worth it. Love is always worth it.”  
  
Emma’s breath caught in her throat and she blinked quickly so she didn’t actually start showing a ridiculous amount of emotion in the middle of Casino Night, dimly aware of the fans around her and the sounds of roulette tables spinning a few feet away. David’s hand landed on her shoulder again.

“That was one of your better ones, Reese’s,” Emma mumbled, hugging her friend close to her and Mary Margaret chuckled against her.

“That was just off the top of my head.”  
  
“What am I going to do?”   
  
“Tell him the truth,” Mary Margaret said evenly.

“And maybe introduce us to his parents,” David added. “Vankalds incoming at two o’clock.”

Mrs. Vankald was wearing feathers in her hair and Mr. Vankald’s tux actually had _tails_ on it and Emma couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her face as soon as she saw both of them, something that almost resembled contentment snuffing out the anxiety that had been lingering in the pit of her stomach.

It was all Mary Margaret’s fault – she was far too good at those _hope_ speeches.

“Emma,” Mrs. Vankald said, smiling as she greeted her. Emma’s feet moved before she was quite ready, David’s hand falling away from her shoulder just quickly enough that Mrs. Vankald didn’t inadvertently pull him into a hug as well.

“Hi Mrs. Vankald,” she mumbled, voice stuttering just a bit as she tried to stay upright on her heels. Emma glanced up to smile at Mr. Vankald and his tuxedo tails – or at least try. It felt a bit nervous.

She was a bit nervous.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Mrs. Vankald continued and if she had any idea about the _whatever_ that was going on between Emma and Killian she didn’t show it. Or sound it. She looked genuinely happy to see Emma. Huh.

“This is incredible, Emma,” Mr. Vankald added. David’s hand was back on her shoulder. Older brother, pride mode, activated. “So much better than the one Casino Night we went to before.”  
  
“You only remember that because they ran out of appetizers at the one Casino Night we went to before,” Mrs. Vankald muttered and maybe this could be normal if they all kept laughing like that. Emma should probably talk to Killian.

_Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope._

Mr. Vankald made a noise in the back of his throat, a scoff that didn’t quite ring true, and Mrs. Vankald smiled at Emma again, glancing at David and Mary Margaret in unspoken question.

“Oh,” Emma started, waving her hands quickly. Mr. Vankald’s head tilted slightly when her laces shifted on her wrist, falling down her forearm slightly and she’d definitely need to get them re-tied at some point because they kept doing that. She should also probably stop tugging on them in _emotional_ moments. “Um, Mr. and Mrs. Vankald, these are my two best friends, David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes did something meaningful at the title Emma so casually dished out and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes – or pull on her laces. David just stuck his hand out, waiting for one or, maybe both, of the Vankalds’ to take it.

Mr. Vankald did.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” David said and everyone in this conversation sounded so sincere Emma wasn’t sure it could possibly be real.

“Are you part of the team as well, David? Front office?” Mrs. Vankald asked and Emma _did_ roll her eyes at that, David’s eyes almost flashing at the question.

“Just a fan,” he answered, disappointment obvious in his voice. “And Emma’s food supplier.”

Mrs. Vankald lowered her eyebrows at that and Mary Margaret wasn’t all that great at conspicuous, very clearly elbowing David in the side.

And it kind of felt like Emma was introducing the Vankald’s to her parents.

“He’s a detective,” Emma supplied and, well, if David could do pride then so could she. And maybe thank him for buying her several boxes of varying pop tart flavors over the last two weeks. “Saves us all, all the time.”  
  
Mary Margaret was absolutely going to start crying in the middle of Casino Night – Emma was certain – and David was staring at her like she’d only recently been abducted by aliens, eyes wide and mouth slightly open and he hadn’t stopped shaking Mr. Vankald’s hand yet.

“Swan?”

David pulled his hand back to his side, palm colliding against the side of his tuxedo pants like it had crashed there. Emma wondered if there was any truth to that whole scientific idea that when one of your senses was dulled, the rest seemed to enhance, because she’d absolutely lost the ability to speak, but she could hear everything clearly and her eyesight had suddenly turned 20/20, picking up on every single detail in Killian’s face when he looked at her.

She felt her mouth open, hopeful the words were just on the tip of her tongue and maybe she wouldn’t sound like a complete fool when she actually said something.

No such luck.

“Is your tie...shiny?” Emma asked. Mary Margaret made some sort of strangled noise and Mrs. Vankald’s smile got even wider.

“I’ve been told on very good authority that metallic is in,” Killian said. There was a smirk – of course there was a smirk – but it looked a bit nervous and his eyes didn’t stop moving, tracing across Emma’s face and she knew the moment they landed on her lips.

He rocked towards her, one foot moving in front of the other before, it appeared, he thought better of it, sticking his hands back in his pockets and staying exactly where he was a few feet away from her.

“Doesn’t seem to really go with the theme,” Emma pointed out. She needed to stop talking. Or, at least, stop talking about his tie.

She needed to talk to him – without his quasi-parents there, without _her_ quasi-parents there. No one moved.

“Ah, well, not all of us are as confident in our fashion choices as Mr. V here,” Killian laughed, nodding towards the man next to him. “Where’d you even get a jacket like that?”  
  
“Oh, leave him alone,” Mrs. Vankald chided, flicking her finger on Killian’s shoulder. “He’s just excited to be here.”   
  
“Ah, well, that makes two of us.” Killian’s shoulders moved when he took a deep breath, eyes flitting back to Emma. She bit her lip and she was totally going to ruin Mary Margaret’s makeup job. “It looks incredible, Swan.”   
  
Emma just nodded, far too aware of Mary Margaret’s stare on the side of her head and David’s hand lingering in the general area of her shoulder and when she blinked she was positive she’d imagined that look of frustration on Killian’s face.

“The, uh, the appetizers should start circulating in a couple of minutes,” Emma said, rushing over the words quickly and ignoring how blue Killian’s eyes looked with that stupid, navy suit and shiny tie. “We won’t run out of them this time, I can guarantee that. I’ve just, uh, got to check on the auction stuff and make sure the broadcast guys stick the script we gave them. I’m so glad you all could make it.”  
  
Mrs. Vankald just kept smiling at Emma, muttering something about _being busy_ and _enjoying yourself when you have some time_ and Mr. Vankald nodded in approval at the idea of never-ending appetizers.

Mary Margaret and David looked disappointed.

“Alright,” Emma snapped and she nearly tripped over her heels backing away. “I’ll see you all later. Eat, there’s an absolutely ridiculous amount of food.”  
  
She moved as quickly as she could, spinning on the spot and her lungs felt tight and her throat felt dry and her vision swam in front of her eyes as she took a few steps forward.

God, there were a lot of fans. They were still cheering – although most of them were cheering for blackjacks and red 22 and someone a couple of feet away yelled about the green square – and the wait staff, all of them with theme-appropriate uniforms that Emma had signed off on weeks ago, was starting to make their way through the crowd. That only made it more difficult to get to the back room, a hallway that, maybe, _hopefully,_ would be just a bit quieter.

And maybe Emma could remember how to breathe.

She got to the hallway and it was, at least, ten degrees cooler there than it was in the main room, but silence, it appeared, was a commodity she couldn’t quite afford.

“Swan,” Killian said and Emma’s head snapped to her side when she heard the edge in his voice. “What are you doing?”  
  
He was already closer than he had been during that entire conversation with the Vankald’s and Emma’s lipstick was a lost cause at this point, a casualty of nerves and an attempt at hope.

“Are you following me?” Emma asked.

He blinked, eyebrows low and something that probably could have been a sneer on his face. He was frustrated – again. “What? No, well, kind of, but only in a sense to make sure you’re alright.”  
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
She’d answered quickly, words falling out of her mouth easily and she hadn’t really looked at him yet, just stared at the opposite wall and tried not to focus how she could _feel_ him standing next to her, lingering just a few feet away like he was nervous to come any closer.

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, a sound that was so familiar now Emma couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her face even if she tried.

He was holding glasses – she hadn’t noticed that before, far too focused on the wall and her shoes – and she heard him exhale softly before he turned on her, nervous smile tugging on one side of his mouth.

“Don’t make a man drink alone,” Killian said softly, tilting one of the glasses towards her.

“I’m not all that interested in a drink. Or a man. I’ve got a job to do. Several, in fact.”  
  
“I think the waiters can move trays without your assistance, love.” Emma huffed, rolling her whole head so she could really drive the point home and Killian’s smile wavered. He sighed again, crouching down to put the glasses behind him.

“You’re going to spill those,” Emma said and she was back to staring at her shoes.

“I’ll remember they’re there.”  
  
“Ok.”   
  
It felt a bit like that phone call – when she’d watched the Vancouver game with her mouth hanging open and her eyes going wide, breath catching in her throat as soon as Graham’s fist landed on the side of Killian’s face. There was still the ghost of a bruise just under his eye, skin slightly more _purple_ just above his cheekbone than it should have been if everything was as fine as Emma kept promising it was.

They’d danced around it then too, stuttering through the conversation in a way they hadn’t since the first set-up and the silence Emma had been so desperate for just a few moments before felt oppressive in the middle of the hallway.

Killian pressed his thumb into the back of his left hand, rocking on his heels and Emma forced herself to look up at him – a mix of disappointment and frustration and hope on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice finding its way into every inch of her. “I know you’ve had the weight of the world on your shoulders and that story couldn’t have come out at worse time, but you’ve got to trust me here, Swan. I want to be in New York. With you.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Emma asked, a picture of well-spoken responses.

“I need you to trust me, love.”  
  
“I do.”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows and he was absolutely going to knock over both of those champagne glasses if he kept rocking on his feet like that. “Somehow I’m not getting that,” he admitted.

“You think that’s what this is about?” Emma asked incredulously and Ruby’s voice echoed in her head. _I promise he doesn’t know._

“Isn’t it?”  
  
“No,” Emma said, half sighing out the word. “I, mean, not now at least. It was in LA, but that was just because I wasn’t expecting the story and Neal was all self-important about you going to the Kings and I kind of lost my perspective a little bit…”   
  
“Wait, Neal? Neal showed you the story?”

Emma nodded slowly. “I guess we never got to that part of the explanation.”  
  
“We did not.”   
  
It wasn’t getting any easier to breathe, particularly when Killian took another step towards her, the toes of his exceptionally polished shoes just a few inches away from her red heels and Emma kept her hands trained at her side so she wouldn’t tug on his belt out of instinct.

“Of course I trust you,” Emma continued. “That’s why I called in the first place. I was...I was worried about you.”  
  
“Then why this?” Killian waved his hand through the space between them, eyes widening just a bit when he met Emma’s gaze. And he might be in one of the best scoring streaks of the season, but he didn’t look like he’d slept much during it either. He looked as exhausted as Emma felt. “Why do you keep pulling away from me?”   
  
“Because everyone left,” Emma said, nearly shouting the words at him. “Everyone. All those families and the houses and Neal and Walsh and even Reese’s and David will at some point. I’ve got to get my own apartment eventually and they’ll get married and they’ll...they’ll leave. And I can’t.” She paused, closing her eyes and she didn’t see him move before his fingers traced over the back of her hand. “I can’t lose you too.”   
  
Killian’s hand twisted, fingers lacing through hers and she felt his thumb come up underneath her chin. “Emma,” he said softly. “Come on, look at me.”   
  
She did and she wasn’t entirely ready for everything she saw – nerves and frustration replaced with something Emma was convinced, just a few moments before, only existed in movies and young adult novels. It made her breath catch again and her stomach do something impossible and her heart beat so hard it actually hurt, thudding against her ribs until she was certain it was the only sound she’d ever hear again.

His thumb moved across her cheek, brushing away the tears she didn’t realize she was crying and Emma’s mouth opened when she realized it was his left hand.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Swan,” Killian continued and his voice cut right to the very center of her, lingering there like someone had lit a tiny fire in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He tugged on her hand – fingers still wrapped up in Emma’s – and she all but crashed into him, letting out a soft _oof_ when the beading of her dress hit up against her legs. And then there was just him and his hand on her hip and his lips on hers and Killian sighed against her, like he’d been waiting for her to catch up to the moment.

He probably had.

Emma moved with him, or maybe against him, out of instinct, heels popping out of the back of her shoes so she could reach him better and his fingers traced across the line of her spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

And if she’d been trying to find that feeling of _home_ in the last two weeks, three days and, now, seven and a half hours since the story and the nerves and the fear, Emma had found it as soon as Killian Jones kissed her again.

He lingered in her space when oxygen became more of a necessity than continued making out in another abandoned hallway, hand still moving up and down her back like he was trying to make up for lost time when it came to touching her.

“You can’t promise that,” she mumbled and, someday, she’d find some sense of consistent confidence.   
  
“I just did.”   
  
“But,” Emma argued, shaking her head and, God, she was still crying. “You _can’t._ It’s not like you can just demand a contract extension.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “I can help my own cause though.”   
  
“Is that what this has been about?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“The scoring streak and _King of New York_ back pages. You’re trying to prove yourself to the New York Rangers front office?”   
  
“In part.”   
  
“What’s the other part?”   
  
Killian grinned, eyebrows doing something wholly unfair for the emotional conversation they were having. “Well,” he said slowly, leaning forward to drag his mouth against the curve of her jaw and Emma could _feel_ every letter of every single word. “There’s this community relations director and she’s kind of thrown everything on its head.”   
  
“Was there a compliment in there? And don’t forget fan experiences and events.”   
  
“I’m getting there, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, of course. Go ahead.”

He chuckled against her neck, both hands heavy on her hip at this point and Emma wasn’t sure when she’d been backed against the wall, but that’s where she’d ended up. “I am one-hundred percent showing off for you,” Killian said.

“That so?”  
  
“Unquestionably. How’s it going?”   
  
“Better now,” Emma muttered, voice catching when he actually started kissing behind her ear.

“Good.”  
  
He kissed her again or maybe she kissed him and they probably moved at the same time because that’s how the night was going, staying in each other’s space even after they’d actually pulled away from each other.

“I do believe you,” Emma said, hands pulling on the front of his tuxedo jacket. “I know you want to stay.”

“More than anything.” He smiled at her and Emma nodded, but she knew what was coming before he even said anything else. “You’re still worried.”  
  
“Aren’t you?”   
  
“Of course I am. And I know half the reason we’re in this entire situation is because of me and what I wanted and didn’t want, but I’m going to fix this, Swan. I’m going to keep scoring goals and we’re not that far out of first really, if you look at the standings, we could make a run at the President’s again, and then we’re going to win a Cup.”   
  
There was no way to argue the conviction in his voice, no way to doubt the certainty in every single word and she let _we_ linger in the air for a few moments before responding.

“You’re almost as good at those motivational speeches as Reese’s.”  
  
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Or, at least, will. In theory.”   
  
“They will,” Emma said, tugging on his jacket for emphasis.

“Confidence, Swan?”  
  
She shook her head slowly and Mary Margaret would be disappointed that the bobby pins had given up, a piece of her hair hitting up against Emma’s forehead. “Hope.”

* * *

They auctioned off every item Emma had gotten signed and the VIP meet-and-greets for the game at the Piers sold for an amount that would probably make her eyes widen for the rest of her life, the self-satisfied smirk on Killian’s face when she told him the number making her roll her eyes as well.

“Ah, well, who could deny themselves the chance to watch me lead a team to victory?” he asked and Mrs. Vankald flicked at his shoulder again.

“You guys didn’t have to bid on anything,” Emma said for what felt like the tenth time. They’d bid on _everything,_ Vankald seemingly written on every other line of the silent auction when Emma went to check between rounds of appetizers.

They only actually won one thing, however – a signed stick by the Rangers front line and Will had laughed about that for a solid five minutes, appearing after he’d wrapped up his required roulette duties.

Robin asked Killian about it on camera, making sure to jab him about his parents buying his merchandise during the special Casino Night edition of _Locked in With Locksley._ Killian had thrown his microphone towards the other side of the room.

Mrs. Vankald brushed Emma off – again – and squeezed her hand. “We wanted to,” she promised. “It’ll go downstairs with everything else.”  
  
“Just don’t tell Liam how much his stuff sold for,” Mr. Vankald muttered. “Elsa won’t ever hear the end of it.”

Emma nodded seriously and, that time, Killian rolled his eyes, wrapping his arm around her shoulder without a word. She might have leaned into it. “Deal,” she promised.

“And I’m glad you didn’t run out of appetizers this time.”  
  
“You and me both.”   
  
Mrs. Vankald hugged her again and Mr. Vankald might have winked, clapping Killian on the shoulder before they both made their way to the doors and the street and for as crowded as Gotham Hall had been that night, it was almost as empty then, fans gone and most of the front office gone and there was still an arm wrapped around Emma’s shoulders.

“Did David and Mary Margaret leave yet?” Killian asked and Emma hummed in response, forehead brushing against his jacket when she shifted against him. “And you didn’t go with them?”  
  
“I have a key.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“What are you getting at?”   
  
He smiled at her and Emma’s stomach flipped. “That I’d very much like you to come home with me. And stay there so I can get some goddamn sleep.”   
  
And her stomach might have flopped at that.

“Romantic,” she mumbled and it wasn’t the insult it might have sounded like.

“I sleep like garbage when you’re not there.”  
  
“So you said on that message.”   
  
“You got that?” Emma nodded and did her best to ignore the way his eyes ducked down when he realized she just hadn’t responded.

“Hey,” she said quickly, resting her palm flat against his chest. “I’m sorry for running. I just...you’ve caught me by surprise and I wasn’t ready to want as much as I do and that was kind of terrifying because there’s no promise this is going to work.”

He lowered his eyebrows and, well, there it was – the admission she hadn't said, too caught up in the kissing in the hallway before. “I trust you, implicitly,” Emma continued, staring at the floor. It was going to take forever to clean this place. “And I believe you want to stay in New York, but what happens if you don’t? There’s no…”

She trailed off and he turned her towards him, hand lingering on her shoulder when he stared at her.

“Yes there is,” Killian countered, clicking his tongue when Emma opened her mouth to argue. “I don’t mean a contract, Swan. I mean you and me. No matter what happens. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded in that giant room.

“Yeah.”  
  
She believed him.

“Can we go home?” Emma asked, pulse picking up almost audibly when she used _that_ particular word. “I’d really like to sleep.”   
  
“I can’t imagine how tired you must be, love. This was incredible. I actually didn’t hate Casino Night this year.”   
  
“That’s not what I meant.”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“I meant, I sleep like garbage when you’re not there.”

She felt him breathe against her, chest moving slightly as he tugged her tighter against his side and his answering smile was enough to power the generator to several small islands in the Pacific Ocean.

“Yeah, Swan,” Killian said, arm still around her even after they’d found their way into the backseat of a cab. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyooooo look who's back on track. 'Ish. There's still a lot of free agency nonsense left and we're still waiting for the Rangers to make a move and there's a charity game to worry about and a Cup run and somehow still fifteen chapters left of this story. 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos - even when you were frustrated with the angst. As always, @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	31. Chapter 31

Mary Margaret’s loft looked a little bit like a high school locker room.

Of course, Killian didn’t mention that. He had, at least, some tact. And it smelled far better than a high school locker room.

There was, however, the problem of navigating the already minimal amount of floor space as soon as Emma swung the door open.

“How do you even move in here?” Killian muttered, trailing a few steps behind Emma as she weaved her way through the several dozen piles of papers, fabric samples and what might have actually been boxes of cake.

“Shh,” Emma warned. “We’re not talking about that.”

She glanced meaningfully over her shoulder and that might have been a mistake because she nearly tripped over a particularly high pile of manilla folders, catching herself just before she knocked them over. And he would have been a fool if he didn’t use it as some sort of excuse to wrap his arm around her waist and tug her against his chest.

Or maybe he was the biggest fool in the entire world because he could feel Emma’s breath catch and her shoulders moved against him and, well, she fit very well pressed up against his chest.

They were still in the middle of Mary Margaret’s loft. And David was absolutely staring at them – _glaring_ at them, _him_ – from the kitchen alcove a few feet away.

“Relax,” Emma whispered, twisting around to widen her eyes at him and that didn’t help much at all. “I totally knew that was there.”  
  
“What is going on in here?” Killian asked, dropping his arm back to its much more appropriate spot at his side. David pulled his eyes away from _glaring_ at Killian when his phone dinged and Emma sighed softly, rolling her eyes towards the low ceilings of the loft.

“We are, officially, in crisis mode.”  
  
“And that’s required some sort of explosion of paperwork?”   
  
“Well,” Emma reasoned, nodding towards the papers that had taken up residence in the far corner of the couch. “Half of those are mine. You know they’re much more insurance-covered at the Piers than they were at the Garden?”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows, staring at this latest pile of insurance waivers and scoffed before he could stop himself. Emma, somehow, widened her eyes even more.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all, actually,” Killian said, working his way towards the couch and there wasn’t actually anywhere to sit. “Hopper’s always been pretty determined to make sure none of us kill ourselves on the ice.”  
  
“I mean no one is killing the kids,” she sighed and he would have been able to hear the exasperation in her voice from the other side of the apartment door. “That’s kind of the opposite of the goal we’re trying to achieve here.”   
  
“No place for humor in a crisis, huh?”   
  
“Not when they’re terrible jokes.”   
  
“Tough crowd.”   
  
Emma groaned, sinking onto one of the open spaces on the ground and pulling a pile of papers towards her. “What do you think of these?” she asked, holding up a handful of...something.   
  
“What are those? And is there somewhere to actually sit?”   
  
“Turn around slowly, try not to knock over Mary Margaret’s fourth iteration of reception seating arrangements and there’s like four inches of floor space over here that you can sit in.”   
  
“Ah, well, of course, how could I have missed that?”

Emma was glaring at him now, David sounding like he was having some sort of conniption in the kitchen alcove. “Ignore him,” Emma muttered.

“What’s going on?” Killian asked, following Emma’s instructions and making his way towards his designated four inches of floor space. “And if I move...what is this? Are these team rosters, Swan?”

She made a noise in the back of her throat, grabbing even more paperwork and his four inches became almost an entire foot of floor space. “Those are team rosters and enough background information on each of you that we can fill out a brand-new program and almost make it seem worth the $60 we’re going to sell it for.”  
  
“Sixty? For real?”   
  
“It’s for charity.”

Killian nodded and he couldn’t stop his smile when Emma rolled her eyes again. “You going to tell me what the crisis is now?”  
  
“Which one?”   
  
“There’s more than one?”   
  
“I guess that depends on your definition of crisis.”   
  
He moved the team rosters, waiting for an explanation on whatever crisis they were dealing with and tried not to be too frustrated at the idea that they were, apparently, dealing with several varieties of crisis.

Two weeks after Casino Night – and the _night_ of Casino Night and the first time Killian felt like he’d actually slept since Los Angeles – and a week out of the charity game and things, finally, felt like they were back on track.

Or at least on their way to getting back on track.

Halfway there. Three quarters of the way, at least.

Definitely three quarters if Emma kept staring at him out of the corner of her eye, glancing between him and whatever it was she was still holding.

So, the Rangers still hadn’t made a move and the Avalanche appeared ready to try and buy Killian a mountain if he’d even consider hearing their offer and if they were a week away from the game then they were also closing in on the trade deadline. He didn’t really sleep unless Emma was there.

He tried to make sure Emma was there as often as possible, but that was proving difficult with, apparently, several different variety of crisis and they’d only just gotten back to New York that morning, wrapping up a back-to-back in Philadelphia and New Jersey.

They won both games.

“What’s the crisis, Swan?” Killian repeated and Emma just shook the papers in her hand.

“This,” she said, as if that explained anything. “Which one do you like?”  
  
He hadn’t really been looking at them – far too preoccupied with the team-branded t-shirt she had on. “Are you wearing my number?”  
  
“I wasn’t aware you owned the numbers two and zero.”   
  
“I think that’s a yes.”   
  
“And you’re trying to be distracting,” she muttered, leaning forward so that she was still just out of reach. “Pick a poster.”   
  
“Is that what those are?”   
  
“Killian,” Emma sighed and it hadn’t been a very long road trip and he’d absolutely missed the way she said his name. He didn’t say that out loud. That probably would have made David glare even more and he was already a bit confused as to what the first glare was about.

“What, Swan?” he asked, inching forward a bit and appreciating the vaguely scandalized look on her face when he moved the team rosters so he could kiss her. “Is that being too distracting?”  
  
“Impossible,” she mumbled.

“Is that just code for how much you missed me on a two-game trip?”

She rolled her eyes, but her hand had found its way to the front of his shirt and he hadn’t actually taken his jacket off yet. There wasn’t anywhere to put it. “Maybe,” Emma muttered, eyes darting to the kitchen when David made another impossible noise. “And maybe I was looking for a little bit of a distraction.”  
  
“From the multiple varieties crisis?”   
  
“From one very specific type of crisis.”  
  
Emma groaned as soon as Mary Margaret’s footsteps came out of the bedroom, a phone pressed up to her ear and an expression on her face that almost screamed crisis. “Oh, Killian,” she said, voice louder than he’d ever actually heard it. “You’re here. Good. Good, you can help.”   
  
“Sure,” he said slowly, eyes darting towards Emma. She just shook her head. “With what, exactly?”   
  
“We’ve got to make some decisions.”   
  
Mary Margaret moved, as if she’d actually answered the question, swinging open the refrigerator door and muttering something under her breath about needing to find _the clean glasses._ “What is going on?” Killian asked and Emma shook her head again.

“Pick a poster for me first,” she said. “Please.”  
  
He, finally, looked at what she was holding and he felt his mouth fall open just a bit when he took it all in, his own face staring back at him in several different variations. “Swan,” Killian said and Emma laughed nervously. “Did you do this?”

“No, no, no,” she said quickly, leaning the posters up against the coffee table that had been pushed up against the couch. “I mean I told them what to do, but it wasn’t even my idea, it was Henry’s.”  
  
“Of course it was,” Killian chuckled, pulling one of the posters towards him.

They didn’t look like anything he’d seen before – and certainly nothing that had ever been seen on the cover of a New York Rangers team program – designed to look like comic book covers and he was actually wearing a cape in one of them.

“These are incredible,” he continued. Emma might have actually blushed, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth in a way that made him want to ignore anything that wasn’t getting her back to his apartment and sleeping. Or maybe not sleeping.

Selfish ass.

“Right?” Emma asked, excitement obvious in her voice. “I didn’t know we had such talent in the design department. Everything I’ve gotten all season has been pretty straight forward.”  
  
“Maybe they were just waiting for a challenge.”   
  
“Or a twelve-year-old to demand comic-book themed programs for his charity game.”

Killian’s eyes snapped up at that and Emma hissed her breath in, like she’d somehow said too much. He’d had his suspicions, knew she talked to Henry far longer than his one Garden of Dreams event dictated and, well, so did he – an inbox full of text messages about his turnovers in the neutral zone a testament to that.

He should probably stop turning the puck over in the neutral zone. Arthur was going to have an aneurysm and Henry needed a few more positive stats to text about. Particularly after that most recent string of text messages Killian had gotten the night before, each one feeling like some sort of stab to his heart or his conscious and maybe _that_ was the crisis.

They were going to close Henry’s house.

A few months from now and they’d try to get the kids adopted – or so Henry said – but Killian knew the system and Emma knew it even better and there wasn’t a high demand for twelve-year-old kids who desperately wanted to stay in New York.

“He told you,” Killian said softly and Emma hummed in the back of her throat.

“They’d already started taking votes about how they were going to spend the money we raised.”  
  
“Maybe they’ll change their mind.”

She laughed. “We both know they won’t. It’s a budget thing and there’s too many kids and not enough money and that’s how it always is. They’ll close the house and some of the kids will find families and the rest of them will just be shipped somewhere else and then it’ll all start over again when the next budget issue crops up."  
  
Mary Margaret was still talking about glasses in the kitchen and David’s phone wouldn’t stop making noise and Emma couldn’t look Killian in the eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled, hand still pressed against his jacket. “That was kind of bitter.”   
  
“You’re allowed to be bitter, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, it’s not the most appealing thing in the world.”   
  
“That’s not something you need to worry about, love. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”   
  
Her laugh was shaky at best and it wasn’t fair – she’d worked so hard on this event and for this team and Killian just wanted _one_ thing to not feel like some sort of insurmountable challenge. They could use a few good stats to focus on. “Then maybe you should stop turning the puck over in the neutral zone so much,” Emma said.

“Noted.”  
  
Emma laughed again, but there was a hint of sadness in the sound that made Killian’s pulse thud and he leaned forward to kiss her again before he remembered that David and Mary Margaret were only a few feet away.

“Didn’t I mention something about relaxing before?” Emma asked. “We’ve got company or something.”  
  
“Aren’t we, technically, the company in this situation?”

“Of course not,” Mary Margaret answered and she’d apparently found the clean glasses because she was nearly staggering under the weight of them. David had even more in his hands and someone was going to impale themselves on a broken glass when they inevitably tripped over one of the stacks of paper on the ground.

“Here, here,” Killian said quickly. “Give me some of those.”  
  
“Gentleman,” Emma mumbled and he flashed her a smile over his shoulder. She just rolled her eyes.

“Always.”  
  
“I don’t even know why you guys are bothering registering anywhere, Reese’s,” Emma continued, pulling some of the glasses out of Mary Margaret’s hands as well and lining them up on the coffee table. “You have so much stuff already there’s no point in getting more, there’s just no space for it.”   
  
“The point,” David said, adding several different bottles of wine to the glasses on the table. “Is that we get stuff for free.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not even true at all,” Mary Margaret said, but Emma mumbled something that sounded a lot like _makes sense._

And Killian was smiling despite the turnovers in the neutral zone and the news about Henry’s house and another challenge in the charity game, far too aware that he’d been invited into this loft and this family and Emma couldn’t keep her hand off his jacket.

She was wearing his numbers again.

“And you guys aren’t company in this situation either,” Mary Margaret continued, sinking onto the floor a few feet away from Emma. “This is as much your apartment as ours.”  
  
“Only because I give David a check every month,” Emma muttered.

David groaned and his phone vibrated again, falling off the coffee table. “Jeez, Em, that was supposed to be a secret.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not big on those.” She glanced Killian’s direction and he felt the rush of _emotion_ rise in his cheeks and he should have told her every single thing about free agency from the very beginning.

And then maybe casually mention that she should consider spending more time at his apartment because _he_ absolutely missed her on a two-game road trip.

Mary Margaret looked disappointed, arms crossed lightly over her chest – something Emma would probably refer to as _teacher’s pose_ – and leveled the rest of them with a very specific type of stare. “Did you pick a poster yet?”   
  
“Nah,” Emma answered. “Killian’s being distracting.”   
  
“I think the word you’re looking for there, Swan, was complimenting all your work,” Killian argued. “And I’m a bit partial to this one of me in a cape.”   
  
“Why does that not surprise me? And I already told you, I didn’t have anything to do with this. It was all Henry’s ideas.”   
  
“The one where you look like you’re about to check Phillip is good too,” David laughed. “And is that your brother?”   
  
Killian’s stomach dropped and he hadn’t noticed that one – far too preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face and examining his comic-book counterpart’s cape. “Ah, yeah,” Emma muttered, tapping on a poster that proclaimed _Don’t Call It a Comeback_ with a cape-wearing Liam brandishing a hockey stick underneath it. “That was also Henry’s idea.”   
  
She glanced nervously at Killian, lip back in between her teeth and he just smiled at her, pulse picking up just a bit the longer he stared at the poster. “He’s going to love this,” Killian said and it might have been the most honest thing he’d ever said in his entire life. “Is this copyrighted? If I send this to El right now will someone get fired?”   
  
“I have no idea. And I might have sent it to El already.”   
  
That gave him pause and Mary Margaret was staring at the scene in front of her like she’d just seen several rainbows explode out of a perfectly blue sky with some sort of immensely talented chorus singing in the background.

“That so?” Killian asked, doing his best to make it sound as if it wasn’t the most important question he’d ever asked.

Emma nodded. “Before you got here. I would have texted you too, but I knew you were going to be here, so it seemed kind of redundant. She liked them a lot, told me she was going to make it her phone background.”  
  
“Of course she is.” She nodded again, twisting her lips. “What are you thinking, Swan?”   
  
“That I might just use all of them.”   
  
“Yeah?”

Mary Margaret actually clapped, smile taking up three quarters of her face and David had absolutely perfected that look of _pride_  whenever Emma did something particularly impressive – Killian was surprised the look just hadn’t been permanently etched on his own face at this point.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “We’ll sell four different programs. You guys could even sign a few and then we’ll sell them all and make a ridiculous amount of money and…”  
  
“And what?”   
  
“I mean we were going to give a good chunk of the money we raised to the house, but if they’re going to close the house, then I don’t know what we’d do. Just give it to Garden of Dreams? I mean, that’s a good cause and we were going to do that anyway, but I kind of wanted to make it a bit more specific than just giving Aurora a check for GD stuff.”   
  
“Scholarships,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, sitting up so straight Killian was concerned about the state of her spine.

“Are you just shouting words, Reese’s? We haven’t even gotten to the wine tasting yet.”  
  
“There’s wine?” Killian asked.

“What do you think one of the crises was? We’ve got to pick a ceremonial wine to drink at the wedding of the century.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”   
  
“Ok, that’s just rude,” Mary Margaret sighed, but the smile hadn’t entirely fallen off her face yet. “And no one is using the term _wedding of the century_ except you, Emma. And! It’s not just wine tasting, there’s cake too.”   
  
“The cake is the only reason I’m still here,” Emma mumbled and David shot her a glare when his phone started ringing. “God, tell Ruth it’s all going to be fine.”   
  
“She’s very worried about the cake,” David explained, glancing apologetically at Killian. “I wasn’t actually trying to shoot lasers out of my eyes at you when you walked in, by the way. I’m just dealing with a cake emergency.”   
  
“Crisis,” Mary Margaret corrected, already uncorking one of the wine bottles on the table. “We decided on the word crisis.”   
  
“You and Emma decided that because it sounded more dramatic. I had no choice in the matter. And we’ve got to pace ourselves on this wine thing because otherwise we’re going to have ourselves another Poker Face moment.”   
  
“Poker Face moment?” Killian repeated. Mary Margaret and Emma both groaned.

“It’s almost the anniversary. That memory is over a decade old at this point.”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma, eyebrows pulled low and she shook her head as she accepted the glass of wine Mary Margaret offered her. “Do not listen to a single thing he says. He’s just trying to distract from the fact that he’s as worried about the state of the wedding cake as his mom is.”   
  
“The cake is super important, Emma!”

“Did I not just say I was only here because of the cake?” David made a face. “Anyway, Reese’s explain what you’re talking about before we do start to Poker Face.”  
  
Mary Margaret sighed. “You did not just use that as a verb.”   
  
“Explanations, Reese’s.”   
  
“Scholarships,” she repeated. “Focus the fundraising on Garden of Dreams stuff, then you won’t have to change the posters or the stuff on the posters when you put them on the front of the programs. But if you’re going to sell four different programs then you should use that money to set up scholarships for some of the older kids at the house.”   
  
Emma blinked once and Killian’s mouth hung open slightly, wine and cake forgotten quickly in the wake of Mary Margaret’s idea. “That’s a really good idea, Reese’s,” Emma muttered.

Mary Margaret shrugged, taking a sip of the wine she very clearly hadn’t forgotten.

“Just because the apartment looks like an explosion, doesn’t mean I’ve lost my cognizant reasoning.”  
  
“And that might have just proved it.”   
  
“Trying to keep those neurons firing, even on February break.”   
  
“Naturally,” Emma laughed, glancing at Killian and her fingers found the back of his hair seemingly out of instinct. “You think that could work?”   
  
“It’s your event, Swan,” he said.

“Yeah, but you’re on the program. And maybe I value your opinion or something.”  
  
“Gross,” David shouted and it was probably for the best because Killian was on the edge of something vaguely romantic in the middle of Mary Margaret’s apartment floor.

“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” Killian said. Emma smiled, eyes lightening and it was the first time since he’d walked through the door that she actually looked as if she was breathing easily. “This is going to work, love.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma agreed and Mary Margaret looked like she’d just witnessed some sort of miracle. “Yeah, it is.”   
  
They drank an absolutely ridiculous amount of wine and Killian was a bit stunned to find out that there were more flavors of cake in Mary Margaret’s apartment than he’d realized existed in the entire world, more than happy to try each of them.

“What is this one called?” Emma asked, voice slurred just a bit and that was not the first time she’d muttered the question.

Mary Margaret hummed, glancing up from where she was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the front of David’s legs. David himself had moved into the one open spot on the couch at some point in the middle of the night, mumbling about his back and the state of the floor and Emma had made sure to point out that he was not the professional hockey player in the room.

He flicked a piece of cake at her.

“I think this one was called bavarian chocolate,” Mary Margaret answered, stabbing her fork at the cake.

“Doesn’t seem very wedding-y.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s a word, Swan,” Killian muttered. “And it’s really not that bad.”

She rolled her eyes – and her head, balance, apparently, a bit more difficult after several different glasses of wine – and leaned against his side. “How can you even tell the difference? Everything’s starting to taste the same.”

“That might be a sign.”  
  
“What is it you’re trying to suggest, Jones?”   
  
“That, as a collective unit, we’ve consumed a considerable amount of wine and wedding cake.”   
  
“Nice save,” Mary Margaret laughed, eyes a bit hooded when she looked at him. David had absolutely fallen asleep. “Did we even decide on anything or did we just get kind of wine drunk on a Thursday night?”   
  
“Kind of,” Emma repeated, shifting against Killian’s side until she’d wheedled her way underneath his arm. “When were you supposed to actually make this cake decision, Reese’s?”   
  
“Uh...like a week ago?”   
  
Emma scoffed, burying her face against Killian’s t-shirt and he kissed her before he could stop himself. Slightly wine-drunk Mary Margaret was a bit more emotional than normal Mary Margaret, eyes going almost glassy when she took in that particular display of affection on her hardwood floors.

“I’ve just had some other things on my mind,” she explained.

“They were taking care of me,” Emma added when she saw Killian’s eyebrows lift. “Buying their kid extra Pop-Tarts in her moment of need.”

And slightly wine-drunk Emma was a bit more talkative than normal Emma.

He’d been an idiot – far too certain that talking about free agency and his fears regarding free agency would, somehow, mess this up, that being honest would, somehow, blow up in his face and the opposite had happened.

He wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.

“This is going to work, Swan,” Killian muttered in her ear and he heard her breath catch before he felt the movement, her hand tightening when she gripped the front of his t-shirt. Mary Margaret appeared to have also fallen asleep.

“I love you,” Emma whispered. He tightened his hold on her shoulders, lips brushing over her head again when she didn’t try to move at all.

“I love you too, Swan.”  
  
They stayed that way for a moment – cake and wine forgotten in favor of simply trying to keep some sort of regular breathing level – and Killian traced his fingers up her arm, laughing softly when he noticed the goosebumps that exploded on her skin.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said and it felt like the words landed in his stomach and his heart and the lungs that suddenly seemed to stop functioning.

“I’m glad you wanted me here.”  
  
“Consistently.”   
  
“See, I knew you missed me.”   
  
Emma groaned, pushing up off him to sit up straight and she rolled her eyes when she looked at him. “Whatever.”   
  
“You’re quite eloquent after several glasses of wine, love.” She bit her lip and he hadn’t expected that look. They were in the middle of banter. There should have been more banter and maybe kissing. “What’s the matter?”   
  
“You called me that in front of David and Mary Margaret.”   
  
“Did I?” Emma nodded, lip still worried between her teeth and Killian hadn’t even realized. It had felt as natural as showing up at the loft as soon as he got her text message that afternoon. “Is that bad?”   
  
“No, I don’t think so.”   
  
“You don’t think?”   
  
“I...just...I wasn’t kidding when I said they were buying things for their kid. And I know you talked to David.”   
  
Killian made a face, sighing and glancing at the sleeping man in the corner of the couch. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything.”   
  
“If it’s any consolation I don’t think he wanted to. Mary Margaret totally gave him up.”   
  
“Ah, I should have considered that.”   
  
“Why did you?”   
  
“Talk to David?” Emma nodded and Killian shifted slightly, sitting up straighter until Emma was perpendicular to him, legs thrown across his knees. “Because I’d exhausted all my other options. And he knows you and what you’re thinking and I was fairly certain I’d absolutely fucked everything up.”   
  
She laughed softly, forehead resting on his shoulder when she fell forward. “Not absolutely.”   
  
“I realize that now,” Killian said. “I just….”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I thought they would have made a move by now.”   
  
Emma’s mouth opened slightly, her quiet exhale of breath barely audible and she rapped her knuckles across shoulder like she’d been waiting for the moment when he finally admitted to the worry that had been sitting in the back of his mind for the better part of the last six weeks.

“Nothing yet?” she asked.

“Nah,” Killian sighed, pulling his hand up to wrap around her fingers. “I thought maybe after the story, but Gina says they haven’t said a word to her. Just some nonsense about weighing all their options, whatever that means. They probably won’t do anything until after the deadline.”  
  
“What are you going to do?”   
  
“I have no idea. The Avs keep mumbling.”  
  
Emma’s lips had all but disappeared at this point, pulled back behind her teeth and she was blinking just a bit quicker than normal. “What did you say?”   
  
“I’m not going to Colorado, Swan,” he said quickly.

“You say that now, but…”  
  
“There’s no but. There’s no nothing. I am exactly where I want to be.”   
  
“In this disaster of apartment?”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
Emma shook her head slowly, disbelief written in every movement. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He didn’t want to _worry_ about this anymore. He’d ignored his phone completely for the better part of the night, determined to forget the fact that Regina was supposed to meet with front office personnel that afternoon to, as she said, discuss the fact that he’d now scored in thirteen of his last fifteen games.

Emma had started eating cake again, stabbing at the dessert thoughtfully before dragging the crumbs around her plate with the back side of her fork.

“That’s not exactly what I meant, you know,” she said after a few more moments.

“What are you talking about?”  
  
“When I said the _but_ and you very gallantly tried to tell me how much you wanted to be here again.”   
  
“Did I prove that point yet?”   
  
Emma made a noise that sounded a bit like agreement, smiling at him as she finally at some of the cake. “I know you don’t want to leave, but that’s not entirely up to you and, well, I just wanted you to know that no matter what happens and who makes what moves, I’m not going anywhere either.”   
  
He’d had a considerable amount of wine and a good amount of cake, but Killian had been fairly certain he was still coherent enough to have a conversation – until Emma stopped talking and ducked her eyes and the air, suddenly, felt very heavy around them.

And he knew how much it meant for her to say that, knew what each one of the letters in each of those words meant and how difficult they’d been to actually say out loud.

This was going to work.

“You are incredible, Swan, you know that,” Killian said, fingers finding their way into her hair.

“Charmer.”  
  
“Always.”   
  
She scrunched her nose, pulling herself closer to him and he hadn’t realized the team-branded merchandise she was wearing was actually All-Star branded merchandise, the logo obvious on the sleeve of her t-shirt. That did something to his lungs as well.

“You really think we can pull off this game?” Emma asked. “At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Piers didn’t just crash into the river so we’d have some sort of other obstacle to overcome.”  
  
“Hopper wouldn’t let that happen,” Killian countered. “He’d probably stand in the water and serve as some sort of human foundation so the Piers would stay above river-level.”  
  
“Is that an actual scientific term?”   
  
“I don’t think so.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, but the smile on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just want to help Henry. It’s...it’s not fair.”   
  
“It’s not,” Killian agreed. “But you’re doing everything you can, love. This game is all he’s talked about for months.”   
  
“Don’t forget your turnovers in the neutral zone.”   
  
“Ah, well, yeah, that too. And the game on Saturday. He hasn’t been in awhile, he was excited about that. We’re going to bring him and Rol into the locker room again.”

“I heard all about that,” Emma said. “It was really nice of Regina to do that.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows. “You didn’t know that? Regina got the tickets. They’re sitting in the 100s too, not the suite.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Emma shrugged. “She just asked me if I thought it was something Henry would be interested in and I guess he and Rol talk all the time now and I just figured she said something to you too. Robin didn’t tell you?”   
  
“No, nothing.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
Killian hummed, but there was something in the back of his mind almost audibly ringing at the news, like he was missing something important.

“Can I ask you something?” Emma said suddenly, sounding as if she’d only just remembered she needed to.   
  
“Anything.”

She twisted her hands thoughtfully, squeezing one of her eyes shut. “I probably should have done this before, honestly.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“You know I get a plus-one to Reese’s and David’s wedding.”   
  
Killian felt the smile on his face almost immediately, eyes widening slightly and he pulled Emma’s hands away from each other. “That so? That doesn’t seem like a question, Swan.”   
  
“My dress fits really well.”   
  
“A very important fact, I agree, but still not a question.”

“Difficult, you’re being very difficult.”  
  
“You said you had a question. I’m just keeping us on track.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she hadn’t moved her legs off his either and they were still sitting in the middle of a paperwork explosion. “You want to go see a castle in June?”   
  
“That’s how you’re asking?”   
  
“That was adorable. And, anyway, I can’t be the one to always set up these dates.”   
  
“Oh it’s a date now?”   
  
“Killian,” she yelled, only realizing how loud her voice had gotten when she glanced quickly at a still sleeping Mary Margaret and David.

He hadn’t let go of her hands yet, pulling both of them up to kiss against her knuckles. “I would love to see a castle in June, Swan. And your well-fitting dress.”  
  
Emma smiled, pulling her hands away and Killian was half a breath away from arguing that particular movement before her lips crashed against his and she sitting on his legs instead of the floor.

It felt a bit like chancing fate – Mary Margaret and David _were_ still asleep and there was paper everywhere and nearly as much cake – but neither one of them seemed all that inclined to stop, something that felt a bit like certainty settling in the pit of Killian’s stomach.

Let the Rangers wait to make a move.

Let the Av’s keep offering.

He had a date in June that didn’t have anything do with hockey and he couldn’t wait.

* * *

“Are you dead?” Regina asked, pulling on the back of his jacket as walked into the restaurant.

“I mean obviously not,” Killian said. The door slammed in his wake, Robin barely making it through the doorway before it did, and several heads snapped up at the sound – including Emma and Henry, sitting on a pair of stools in the corner of the bar a plate of onion rings between them. “Scoring goals is difficult when you’re dead. I’d assume, at least.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me, Jones.”   
  
“Would I do that, Gina?”   
  
Robin groaned. “Don’t be an ass.”   
  
“I set you up in front of the net tonight,” Killian pointed out. “Twice. That gives me a little bit of leeway.”   
  
“No it doesn’t.”   
  
“Can we focus please,” Regina snapped, backing up quickly to a slightly empty corner. She crooked one finger forward when neither Killian nor Robin moved, widening her eyes as if she couldn’t quite believe they didn’t just know she wanted them to follow her.

“Uh oh, scary face,” Killian muttered and Robin made another exasperated noise, already a few feet closer to his wife.

“See, that qualifies as ass territory.”  
  
“Two goals, Locksley,” he argued, but he was already walking towards the corner as well, far too familiar with the very determined look on Regina’s face. “Why’d you act like Emma got the tickets for Henry, Gina?”

“That’s not important,” she said quickly. It sounded very important.

“No? You guys didn’t even sit in the suite.”  
  
“Focus, Jones. We’re not talking about me or my seats for tonight’s game. We are talking about you and your current state of life.”   
  
“I thought we’d already covered that. Still alive, still playing hockey, still curious why you’re not telling me anything.”   
  
“Yeah, you don’t get to pull that card,” Robin muttered, leaning on the edge of one of the tables.

Killian shrugged. “That’s fair, I guess. Alright, Gina, I’ll bite. What’s going on with my current state of life?”  
  
“You should have answered your phone before.”  
  
“I was kind of busy.”   
  
“Doing?”   
  
“That’s not any of your business,” he said, voice going hard far quicker than he expected. Regina lifted her eyebrows. “We were planning stuff for the charity game and wedding stuff.”   
  
“Wedding stuff?” Robin and Regina repeated, both of them practically screaming the word.

“Jeez, will you two relax. Mary Margaret and David’s wedding. God, it’s like being friends with a pair of particularly gossipy high schoolers.”  
  
Regina’s glare, somehow, intensified and Killian snapped his jaw shut, pain shooting through his joints. That seemed about par for this conversation.

“I talked to front office,” Regina said.

“I knew that.”  
  
“Yeah, but you didn’t answer your phone, so you don’t know what happened in that meeting with front office.”   
  
“Just tell him, Gina,” Robin said gently, tapping on elbow. She didn’t glare at him. That seemed, decidedly, unfair.

And Killian’s stomach was churning.

“They want to make a move,” Regina said, voice even as if that wasn’t the most important news in the move.

“What?” Killian shouted and Emma had moved now, jumping off the stool in the corner to weave her way through the post-game crowd. “When? For how much? God, Regina, bury your lede more, why don’t you?”  
  
“Ok, first of all, you obviously need to stop spending so much time with Ruby and Dorothy if you’ve started incorporating newspaper jargon into your daily vernacular.”   
  
“And second of all?”   
  
“Second of all,” Regina sighed, glancing quickly at Robin, “there’s a caveat.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma’s hand had found his and Killian couldn’t quite imagine how she’d gotten across the restaurant so quickly. He didn’t really care.

“What’s going on?” she asked, eyes finding his almost immediately.

“Gina talked to front office. They want to make a move.”  
  
“What? That’s awesome!”

Regina clicked her tongue, hands lifted slowly and she kept darting her gaze back towards Robin. “What’s going on, Gina?” Killian asked and Emma’s grip tightened. “What’s the caveat?”

“They only want you if you win,” she answered. Robin moved off the table as she spoke, hand finding her shoulder and Regina couldn’t seem to meet Killian’s eyes.

That made him more nervous than just about anything else.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“A Cup,” Robin said. “They only want to sign you post-Cup.”  
  
Killian’s mouth fell open and Emma’s hand went a bit slack, eyes going wide. “Oh,” he muttered, nodding slowly if only to try and make sure his entire body wasn’t systematically shutting down.

“Is that a joke?” Emma asked sharply, fingers tightening again. “You’re kidding, right, Regina? I mean he’s on the side of the Garden. He’s the face of the fucking franchise.”  
  
“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t explain to front office,” Regina sighed. She looked as disappointed as she sounded. And this was all a little much. Regina didn’t get disappointed over anything. She just stared them all down until she got what she wanted.

“So what happens now, then?”

Regina shrugged. “They want him to come back, they made that very obvious. And there’s enough space for a pretty sizeable deal. But they’re not interested in anything, from anyone who’s not already signed for a few years, if they don’t win a Cup.”  
  
“Cup or bust,” Emma muttered.

“Exactly that. Arthur’s in the same boat. Why do you think he keeps breaking all those whiteboards? His nerves are totally frayed.”  
  
“Ah, well, at least your nerves are in good standing, Cap,” Robin laughed, a fairly pitiful attempt at humor that seemed to hang in the middle of their slightly emotional corner of the restaurant.

“So far at least,” Killian said.

“The Stars called again,” Regina added. He just rolled his eyes.

“Tell them no.”  
  
“Killian.”   
  
“No, Gina.”   
  
“Nothing is certain here though. That’s just stupid.”

Emma shifted next to him and he pulled his hand out of hers so he could wrap his arm around her shoulders and Robin almost looked impressed. “Yes it is,” Killian argued. “And we’re absolutely going to win the Cup.”  
  
Regina opened her mouth to argue and even Emma looked cautious, but Robin finally moved away from the table, standing in between all of them with a very specific expression on his face. Like his kid had just graduated college or got drafted sixth overall in the NHL Draft or set him up for two goals in the game against the Islanders that night.

“Don’t Gina,” he said softly. “Cap’s right, we’re totally going to win.”  
  
He nodded once for emphasis and Regina’s shoulders sagged, all the fight rushing out of her as quickly as it had appeared. “At least answer your phone from now on,” she said, tugging on Killian’s sleeve.

“Deal.”

Regina hummed her approval and there was something that almost looked like a smile on her face when she walked away, already calling for Roland and Henry and her own plate of onion rings with Robin close on her heels.

Emma didn’t move and Killian didn’t pull her arm away from her shoulders.

“It’s going to be ok,” she said softly, sounding like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

She didn’t have to.

“I know, Swan,” Killian promised. “Come on, there’s onion rings over there with our name on them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Fluff. Fluff. And....FA problems. We're playing kind of fast and loose with the actual FA rules here, but the general idea is there. And the drama. Lots and lots of drama. 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for continuing to be fantastic and @laurenorder for making this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	32. Chapter 32

Her phone buzzed, shaking on the wood of the nightstand just a few feet away from her and Emma didn’t even try and stop herself from groaning at the sound.

It was early.  
  
It was too early for a Sunday. Early shouldn’t exist on a Sunday.

Her phone didn’t seem to care. She just hoped it wasn’t Hopper calling to cancel. That would have been too much.

She would have refused to get out of bed if Hopper was calling to cancel.

She wasn’t even in her own bed.

“Swan,” Killian shouted, voice sounding farther away than it should have. Emma cracked open an eye, flipping on her side and he wasn’t on the other side of the bed like he should have been. She should have known.

It was early and Killian was already awake. Of course.

Emma groaned again, tugging what felt like several dozen blankets up over her neck, kicking a pillow off the foot of the bed. There hadn’t been enough time the night before – just hands and lips and something about how much better the PK had gotten since Scarlet had gotten back and Killian glared at that, muttering something that sounded like, _do not talk about Will Scarlet while I’m trying to undress you, Swan_ , and they didn’t really have time to move the pillows.

And now it was Sunday and there was a charity game and Emma had somewhere in the vicinity of eight hundred things to do. There was a list somewhere. She’d definitely brought the list with her the night before.

She could hear Killian laughing when he walked back into the room and that made Emma grumble more, pushing her forehead into one of the pillows at the top of the bed. “Shut up,” she mumbled. “It’s ridiculously early.”  
  
“It’s not even,” Killian argued, the edge of the mattress dipping noticeably when he sat down. “Answer your phone, love.”   
  
“It’s probably Hopper. Telling me the Piers have crashed into...which river is that?”   
  
He was smiling when she flopped back over, eyebrows lifted and a toothbrush held lightly in his hand. “Hudson,” he answered, eyes doing something unfair for how early it was on a Sunday. “The East River is, as its name implies, on the east side of the city.”   
  
Emma stuck out her tongue and that just made Killian laugh even more and he was already half dressed, pants on and belt through the loops and a white t-shirt on that made her consider all the reasons they could _both_ spend the rest of the day in this bed.

“And,” Killian continued, nudging her leg through the blankets with his elbow. “I can promise you that’s not Hopper calling.”  
  
That gave her pause.

“How do you know that?” Emma asked, punching at the pillow under her head when it wouldn’t conform to her movements.

“Hey! Leave the pillow alone. It didn’t do anything to you.”  
  
He was right – impossibly right considering how little sleep they got the night before, forced uptown against their will because Liam was there and, well, Emma couldn’t be too upset about it because Liam was there and he was absolutely doing her a favor.

And he might have saved this whole event as much as Killian had.

They sold out of tickets the same day they officially announced that, _for one day only_ , Liam Jones was coming out of retirement and coming back to New York and Emma only wished Elsa could be there to see.

She had, however, been promised videos and a special edition of Locked in With Locksley and both Elsa and Anna had spent the night before in front of a phone screen, passed around the restaurant so they could _be there_ , without being there.

It had been adorable and sweet and everything that didn’t quite make sense about the New York Rangers and Emma almost didn’t notice the look on Regina’s face as she took up residence in the back corner of the restaurant.

Almost.

Killian elbowed her shin again and Emma grumbled, pushing herself up against the wall and grabbing the Rangers pillow she’d only just moments before been beating into some sort of pulp. “Did you see Regina last night?” she asked.

“What?” Killian countered, confusion obvious in the quick jerk of his head. “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”  
  
“If it’s not Hopper, it doesn’t really matter. Everyone else can wait two seconds. Now come on, did you see?”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes, but he didn’t mention the phone again and Emma hugged the pillow just a bit tighter waiting for the answer. “She kept trying to get Roland come sit with her,” he said slowly, like he was tracing back through memories. “That was...weird. Right? That’s weird.”   
  
“You know her better than I do. Do you think something...”   
  
“With?”   
  
Emma eyed him meaningfully and his mouth dropped a bit when he noticed how tightly she was holding onto the pillow.

They probably should have talked about it more – the _Cup Caveat_ as Scarlet had dubbed it – but there’d been so much going on and Emma was drowning in pre-game to-do-lists and Killian was just focused on getting through this home swing and neither one of them had quite resigned themselves to diving into the deep end of contract negotiations. Or a lack of negotiations.

Emma pulled her eyes up towards Killian and he looked far more confident than she felt. Good. That was good.

He was so certain this would work. They were going to win a Stanley Cup and the Rangers were going to sign him and it would be _fine_. It would. And it wasn’t as if Emma wasn’t certain too, or at least somewhere in the realm of positive.

She was. She was a far cry from the uncertain, vaguely terrified version of herself she’d been in Los Angeles. And she did believe the Rangers could win a Cup. She read a lot of box scores and looked at advanced analytics and, on paper, it made sense.

This could be the year.

It also couldn’t.

Because there was a reason they called it the toughest trophy to win in all of sports and the playoffs lasted for months and one misstep could prove disastrous.

_They_ were going to be fine no matter what – Emma was positive of that now – but she didn’t know what would happen to Killian Jones, hockey player, if the Rangers didn’t win a Stanley Cup this season.

And figuring out what to do about that might have been several bullet points on her to-do-list.

“No,” Killian answered and Emma had almost entirely forgotten the question. “No, nothing’s going to happen Swan. Not yet, at least.”  
  
She hummed in agreement and she knew that. “But,” she said cautiously, tugging her lower lip in between her teeth when Killian’s stretched over the blanket her legs were still wrapped under. “What happens if…”

He shook his head before she’d even got the whole question out. “We’re not doing that, Swan. That’s a dangerous game.”  
  
“I know, but…”   
  
“No,” he said and it felt like the word snapped on his tongue. Emma’s lip was in danger of being torn apart. Killian’s face softened as soon as he noticed, the tight grip he’d had on her shin, loosening just a bit as he almost smiled at her. “No,” he repeated, voice barely loud enough to hear. “I can’t...we can’t go that direction. If we start doing that and considering all of those what-if’s, then I’m going to lose my mind. I can’t do that.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, hand falling on top of his. He smiled at that, eyes flitting up to hers and the pillow she still had resting on her lap.

“The only thing I can control right now is how I play,” Killian continued, but his voice was far too telling and Emma could hear the _want_ there. He took a deep breath, pulling the air in through his nose and his mouth twisted into something almost sneering. “I feel like I’m trying out for the team every time I get on the ice.”   
  
He could probably hear the sound of her heart, that crack she felt splitting right up the middle and Emma tugged her hand away from his – resting it on his cheek and the stubble he hadn’t gotten around to shaving yet.

He turned his face against her palm, lips brushing across skin and her heart did something entirely different, speeding up to what Emma was certain was an impossible and vaguely unhealthy rate.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite sure what else she _could_ say. She was the worst girlfriend in the history of the entire world.

And she was probably going to be late to her own charity event. Her phone buzzed again.

“Don’t be, love,” Killian said, head still turned against her palm and his lips brushed against her again. That wasn’t helping her _getting out of bed_ cause. “This is my fault anyway.”   
  
“Don’t do that.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“This slow circle of self-imposed, guilt-insanity,” Emma said and the words seemed to rush out of her in one, great huff, like she’d been holding them in for the better part of the last week. She kind of had. “It’s not healthy.”   
  
He scoffed, breathing hitting up against her palm. “Are you critiquing my health, Swan? I think I proved I was in fairly good health last night.”   
  
Emma sighed, but she was so impossibly charmed – at whatever time it was on Sunday morning, she still hadn’t gotten that out of him yet – that she didn’t even push him away when he leaned forward and started trailing his lips against the side of her neck.

It was almost enough to distract her completely, almost enough to make her forget that, once again, Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, didn’t feel good enough, felt like he needed to prove something to the one team that had _always_ been there.

Emma might have been coming up with plans to blackmail the entire New York Rangers front office when he spoke again.

“Thank you,” Killian whispered.

“For?” Emma asked, scrunching her nose when she realized how breathless she sounded.

Killian’s hand moved, twisting around the side of her hip and he’d tugged the blankets down even more until they’d landed around her waist and his fingers found the few inches of skin not covered by his shirt.

“This,” he muttered, like that explained anything at all.

“I’m very confused.”  
  
He laughed against her and kissed once more, just behind her ear, before sitting up straight and looking at her with an intensity that made Emma blink. She clenched her jaw, tugging the pillow back up against her chest and waited for an explanation.

“You’re still here,” Killian said softly and with a kind of wonder Emma couldn’t quite comprehend.

“Where else would I be?”  
  
The words were out of her mouth before she’d completely considered them, the weight of each and every syllable hanging in the minimal amount of space between them and Killian practically beamed at her.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “And it makes me a selfish bastard, but I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else, Swan. I’m…” He took a deep breath and, God, he was still holding a toothbrush and it was so damn domestic Emma could hardly see straight.

She hadn’t even brought anything to sleep in the night before, certain she could just steal a team-branded, oversized t-shirt out of his closet. She had. She didn’t even have to ask.

And she didn’t have to ask what he meant.

He wasn’t just playing well to try and impress the New York Rangers front office keep their hold on the first Wild Card spot – more than just a few points behind the Blue Jackets after the loss the night before. He was playing for her or them or that _we_ they kept referring to, like some sort of collective, domestic unit that didn’t require Emma to ask to borrow shirts.

“I know,” Emma mumbled. “And I know you don’t want to talk about the what-ifs or the standings or anything and that’s fine, really, you’ll get enough of that from everyone else. But whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Not anymore.

She didn’t say that part.

She didn’t have to.

He pulled the pillow out of her hands before he kissed her, lips slanting over hers in a way that was so familiar Emma’s breath caught in her throat and her lungs tightened slightly and she loved him an absolutely ridiculous amount.

“I love you,” Killian said, not even bothering to move away from her and he tasted like toothpaste. “More than anything.”  
  
He didn’t say the rest of it either – more than a contract with the Avs or the Stars or whoever was draining the battery on Regina’s phone and making her look the way she had looked the night before in the back corner of Eric’s restaurant.

He didn’t have to.

And Emma Swan was, decidedly, finished with overwhelmed, happily treading water in the deepest end of feelings and love and being wanted.

She was a bit terrified of that giant wave lingering in the corner of her eye, but she was pretty confident she could ride it out. Or swim through it. Or something. She’d kind of lost control of the metaphor.

It was very early.

And she couldn’t think straight when Killian looked at her like that.

“That’s not even fair,” she muttered, knocking the edges of her knuckles on his t-shirt.

He looked slightly affronted at that, eyebrows pulled low as he tugged her hand away from the fabric. God, there was a tie stuffed in his pocket. She hadn’t noticed that before. She should be more aware of her surroundings.

“What isn’t?” Killian asked, voice low and dangerous and doing something very specific to several of Emma’s internal organs. Her phone went off again. “And that’s probably Liam,” he added, nodding towards her phone. “We’re supposed to get breakfast before, remember?”  
  
“Or maybe Scarlet. Just to be an ass.”   
  
“I thought we agreed, Swan. And you didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“Were you trying to undress me? Aren’t we late? And you’re three-quarters of the way dressed already, that’s just impractical.”

“You’ve just asked two questions and made one comment on my clothes and none of what you said was an actual answer to the question I asked hours ago.”  
  
“Hours?” Emma repeated skeptically, not able to keep the laughter out of her voice. Her phone started ringing. “That’s probably, Reese’s. It’s like she’s sending her kid off on its first day of school or something.”   
  
“And they’re supposed to meet us down here before we go to breakfast,” Killian added. His hand was moving of its own volition now, halfway up her side and inching treacherously close to her bra.

“You invited Reese’s to breakfast with your brother?”  
  
“David too.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
He grinned at her, that knowing smile on his face somewhere in between frustrating and endearing. David was going to have a conniption in the middle of coffee – fandom dreams come true as he had breakfast with both Jones brothers at the same time.  

“David’s probably going to ask Liam for his autograph,” Emma mumbled, finally grabbing her phone when the voicemail notification went off, loud enough to vibrate the paint off the walls. “And I honestly can’t remember what the question was.”  
  
“You wound me, love,” Killian laughed and he hadn’t actually moved his hand. It was difficult to concentrate. “You accused me of being unfair and I was just curious what it was I was doing.”   
  
Emma waved her hands through the air, nodding towards whatever it was his fingers were doing and barely managed to suppress a groan when he figured out a way to unhook her bra around her back.

“That,” she muttered and it seemed unnecessary. He absolutely knew what he was doing. Smug ass. She didn’t want him to stop. “That is part of it.”  
  
“What’s the other part?”   
  
Emma looked back up at him again, forcing herself not to blink if only because she wanted to make sure she catalogued every single moment of his reaction. She wanted to remember and that might have been why she was so certain.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

It was worth not blinking for. He moved when she tugged on the front of his t-shirt, lips finding hers again and if the last kiss had been familiar, this was the opposite, somewhere bordering on aggressive and determined and both of them seemed to pour every unspoken word they’d been determined to ignore for the last week into one single movement.

His hand found its way around her, palm pressed flat against her spine and Emma was still holding on to his shirt like some sort of life vest in whatever metaphor she was running with at the moment.

The room felt like it was spinning and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered she’d brought a toothbrush with her – to leave there. She should ask him if that was ok. Or maybe just put it next to his when he finally got off the edge of his bed.

Probably the second one.

Emma’s phone made a slightly muffled noise from underneath a pile of blankets – sacrificed to the Sunday morning makeout gods – and Killian sighed softly, hovering just above her and she didn’t quite remember turning like that.

“Answer your phone, love,” Killian said, leaning back slightly and brushing a piece of hair out of her eyes. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment, something flashing in his eyes that Emma couldn’t quite name, and she would have been content to stay in that bed for several Sundays.

Maybe every Sunday. She didn’t say that. One step at a time.

“Ok,” she mumbled and Killian smiled at her.

“Today’s going to be incredible, Swan. And Liam will probably volunteer to autograph anything David wants. Read your text messages.”  
  
He moved before Emma could respond, which was probably for the best since she was daydreaming of infinite Sundays in his bed and that was just a bit out of character, even for this newly discovered positive-Emma.

It took a few moments and he’d moved to the kitchen now, the telltale signs of coffee being brewed just barely making their way to the bedroom, but Emma found her phone and her six text messages, three missed calls and one voicemail.

She ignored the voicemail – could probably recite Mary Margaret’s _supportive_ speech verbatim at this point – and the missed calls from David, following up after Emma hadn’t answered Mary Margaret. She scrolled by the most recent texts – two from Elsa reminding Emma about the videos, one from Anna making sure Emma remembered to tease Killian about every one of his coaching choices, another from Hopper promising he was _ready_ and _excited_ for the day and one more from Scarlet whining about his designated role as on-ice MC.

Emma’s thumb froze over the last one and Killian’s name was on the tip of her tongue, almost shouting out of instinct to find out _what this was all about_. She didn’t. He’d probably been counting on that.

She tapped on the message instead, half certain her face was going to freeze into some improbable smile as her eyes moved across the screen.

**Chelsea Piers was originally built as the docking point for transatlantic ocean liners in the early 20th century. Ignore the Titanic facts. That’s irrelevant to the impending success of your game today.**

**Ignore the multiple fires too.**

**Pier 54 has been used for concerts and was once home to a horrible shipping container museum that Liam actually enjoyed when Mr. V made us go.**

**All of Law & Order was filmed at the Piers. **

**Law & Order, or any of its never-ending spinoffs, was not nearly as impressive as this game is going to be. **

Emma shook her head slowly, staring at the screen and blinking back the tears she hadn’t entirely expected.

It was still impossibly early and she hadn’t actually gotten out of bed to find that to-do-list she’d definitely left in her coat pocket the night before, everything she had to do looming over her, but Emma couldn’t stop smiling.

She was happy – right down to her bones and her muscles and every bit of her that if she said it out loud, would probably detract from the moment just a bit – the opposite of scared or anxious or anything that wasn’t somewhere in the realm of perfect.

They were going to win.

* * *

Archie Hopper, it appeared, was simply thrilled with the prospect of being alive. He was going to give Mary Margaret a run for her positive-money, Emma was sure of it.

She walked into Chelsea Piers nearly three hours before puck drop to find a line of fans already weaving their way down 11th Ave and tried not to actually wince when she heard the shutter clicks of what sounded like several thousand iPhones.

Killian didn’t let go of her hand.

It didn’t really seem to matter, no one noticed them anyway – three quarters of the crowd started screaming for Liam as soon as they got out of the car and he waved at the line of them like some sort of prodigal son returning to the Meatpacking District.

And Emma didn’t let go of Killian’s hand either, something in her stomach shifting as soon as she noticed the slightly stricken look on his face.

“Hey,” she muttered, bumping his arm with her shoulder. His eyes flashed towards her and it wasn’t quite the easy confidence it had been in his room. It was a mix of nerves and hope and that patented Killian Jones desire to prove himself.

She’d gotten very good at reading his face.

“Check your phone,” Emma continued.

“What?” Killian muttered, shaking his head quickly like he was trying to blink away the memories and the guilt Emma knew he’d been focused on the entire car ride to the Piers. He’d held her hand that entire time too, smiling slightly when Liam pointed the phone and El’s FaceTime call his direction.

“Your phone,” she repeated.

She’d sent it a few blocks before the Piers, hoping it was on silent so it didn’t start to buzz in the backseat of the car with Liam on Killian’s other side. Killian narrowed his eyes, barely muttering _hey_ to a very excited Archie Hopper, and he finally pulled his hand away from her to reach into his pocket.

If they weren’t in the middle of Chelsea Piers and Archie Hopper wasn’t waxing poetic about how wonderful it was to have the Jones brothers back again, Emma probably would have pressed up on her toes and actually muttered the words in Killian’s ear instead of texting them to him. And then she probably would have told him he should smile like that all the time.

Probably.

_Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, currently sits in fifth-place all-time on the team’s scoring records._

_Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, picked up his fourth All-Star appearance this season and, this season, he finally went because, Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, is very good at playing hockey._

_Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, does not know how to move in figure skates,  but Emma Swan, director of the New York Rangers community relations department, might be the only one who knows that._

_She’s glad she is._

Archie was still talking. Emma hadn’t heard a single word he’d said, barely able to keep her balance when Killian slung his arm around her shoulders and tugged her tightly against his side, lips brushing over her head.

“You’re going to get us on Page Six,” Emma muttered.

“I don’t care,” Killian countered, kissing her again like that proved that.

Archie coughed pointedly and Liam glared at them with all the power of an older brother making his post-retirement return to the ice. “You guys still here?” Liam asked. “You’re missing Hop’s whole speech.”  
  
“Still here,” Emma promised. Mary Margaret sounded like she was trying not to laugh. It wasn’t really working well. It worked even less when David joined her, staring at Emma with something that resembled awe.

Archie didn’t seem to mind – he seemed to love _everything._ He kept using that word. He loved the event and he loved that Emma thought of the Piers and he loved how _enthused_ the season-tickets on 11th Avenue were, all of them still shouting for Liam Jones.

Emma blinked once and Killian’s hand found hers again, phone back in his pocket and that smile on his face.

Archie made a noise again and Emma scrunched her nose, embarrassment creeping up her cheeks when she realized she’d been completely ignoring him. Still.

“Sorry, sorry, Archie,” Emma said quickly and both Jones brothers laughed at that. Archie himself looked a bit stunned at not being referred to as Hopper. “You have my undivided attention. What was the question again?”  
  
He pushed his glasses up his nose, lower lip a bit farther out than normal and glanced at Liam again. “What time are we letting them in?”   
  
“Season tickets?”

“No, no, the media that’s sitting around the corner.”  
  
“What?” Emma snapped and Killian’s hand tightened instinctively. Archie shuffled on his feet and his eyes probably could have bored their way to the center of the Earth at this point. “Who? How long?”   
  
“Just a few minutes,” Archie said at the same time Killian’s phone _dinged_ and he sighed loudly.

“He’s already texted me too,” Liam added and Emma’s head was on a swivel. Mary Margaret muttered something under her breath

“Who?” Emma asked, practically shrieking the word and five pairs of eyes moved to her. David put his hand on her back and she tried not to collapse against him out of instinct.

“Who’s out there media-wise or who’s texting Liam and Killian?” Archie asked, practically racing over the words.

“Both.”

“Uh, there’s about a dozen media people out there. Local, TV, a couple of beat reporters maybe. I think ESPN is here.”  
  
Emma’s eyes were going to fall out of her head. She did collapse back on David’s hand then, his arm moving around her shoulders and it wasn’t particularly comfortable because Killian still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“Why?” she asked. “Where’s Ruby? Reese’s have you talked to Ruby? She should be here. She should be fielding this. We’re not supposed to go for another three hours. There’s not supposed to be media here until the end of the game!”

She was losing her mind. Her voice was hoarse and her mouth was dry and her hand was bordering on disgusting, sweat working its way into the fingers still laced up with Killian’s.

“Scarlet’s taking care of it,” Liam said like that was supposed to make her feel better.

“What?”

“Will Scarlet,” he repeated, slower that time and Killian almost audibly rolled his eyes. “He’s been relegated to MC duties? He feels like he’s living up to his job title.”  
  
“I know who Will Scarlet is,” Emma snapped. David started rubbing out small circles in between her shoulder blades. It wasn’t working. “Ok, ok,” she said quickly, shaking her hands in front of her as she stepped away from both David and Killian. “Archie!”   
  
“Yeah?”

“Is there somewhere we can put media? That isn’t around the corner? And did they say why they were here early? We planned for this.”  
  
Archie hissed in a breath of air, wincing like Emma had punched him in the face. He didn’t love this. Emma was half a moment away from asking –  _demanding_ – answers when a door clattered open behind them and she did her best to steel herself to the camera that was, likely, inevitably advancing on them.

“This is why,” Ruby said sharply, practically sprinting into the lobby and pushing what had probably once been a newspaper into Emma’s hands. She glanced around, smiling at the slightly stunned crowd before nodding in Liam’s direction. “You must be the other Jones.”  
  
Liam’s eyes widened and Killian barked out a slightly nervous laugh. “I’ve never been referred to as the other anything before,” Liam said, sounding just a bit stunned.

“Ignore her,” Emma mumbled. “Rubes where have you been? Did you know there were media here? What is this?”  
  
“It’s a newspaper, Emma,” she said evenly.

“What does it have to do with the horde of media around the corner?”  
  
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the dramatic bed this morning. Don’t you have a more comfortable bed, Jones?” Killian sounded like he was choking and Emma groaned, staring at the exposed piping in the ceiling. “Read the paper, Em,” Ruby continued, nodding towards the crumpled up sheets in her hands.

It took a few moments to actually work out the headline, but when she did Emma wished she hadn’t. Goddamnit. God _fucking_ damnit.

**Raiding the Rangers: Cap on his way out of City?**

_Killian Jones, the long-time Rangers captain and unquestioned leader of the Blueshirts...trade rumors have picked up ahead of the deadline...no move from New York...trade rumors have slowed...Avs have reportedly expressed interest….likely won’t be back in New York….front office sources from around the league._

She didn’t read the rest. She didn’t really read any of it, couldn’t settle on a single sentence when there was so much conflicting information and contradictory statements and no wonder there was a whole platoon of media around the corner.

Goddamnit.

“Did this come out today?” Emma asked softly, handing the paper back to Ruby.

She nodded. “Newspapers have a tendency to do that.”’

“Ruby.”  
  
“I know, I know,” she sighed. “It’s a coping mechanism. I should have known. It’s...it’s my fault.”   
  
Killian pulled the paper out of Ruby’s hands, ignoring her quick cries and Emma saw the moment his eyes hit the one line she’d done her best to ignore – _What’s going to happen to Killian Jones?_

“Tell them I’ll talk,” he said immediately.

“What?” Emma and Ruby asked at the same time. Liam looked concerned.

“No, no,” Ruby said quickly. “Killian, you can’t do that. Not after a story like this. You’re just feeding the fire here.”  
  
“Well they started it. Lit the flame or whatever cliché you want to use.” He looked over his shoulder at Liam. “Was that good, you think?”   
  
Liam finally smiled, pulling on the hair at the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, a very appropriate cliché . I’ll tell Elsa later.”   
  
“I have no idea what’s going on,” Ruby grumbled and it was obvious how much she didn’t appreciate admitting it.

“Tell them I’ll talk,” Killian repeated. “After the game. Only after though. If they want a quote then they stick around for the whole thing. They film highlights like it’s a fucking Game Seven. They put Henry on every TV screen in America. They talk about all the work GD does to help kids in the city, especially the local stations.”  
  
Ruby quirked one eyebrow, but Emma knew that look. She was plotting. “Anything else?”   
  
“What else you got?”   
  
“You should probably stop kissing Emma in public places. You’ll end up in the tabloids then too.”   
  
“That’s more up to Swan than me.”   
  
He threw her a smile that made her press her lips together tightly so she didn’t dissolve into some sort of _girlish_ puddle in the middle of Chelsea Piers. She didn’t have time to melt – she had an event to save.

“That sounds good to me,” Emma said. Mary Margaret was back to beating Archie in the not-quite-real battle they were staging over who could looked more overjoyed. “Are the rest of the guys here yet?”  
  
“Scarlet’s dealing with the media now,” Liam answered. “This plan might all be for nothing, honestly since he’s probably scared them all away by now.”   
  
“Finally does something useful,” Killian muttered and Emma didn’t remember being pulled back against his side. She didn’t move either.

Will materialized, it seemed, out of thin air, jogging down the hallway with a defined crease in between his eyebrows – like he’d spent the better part of the last few minutes glaring at a variety of media outlets.

“That’s rude, Cap,” Will shouted, skidding to a stop as he threw a hand out on Liam’s shoulder. “Hey leader, how’s the family?”  
  
“As fine as they were when you asked me yesterday, Scarlet,” Liam laughed.

“That’s called being kind and interested in your boring, domestic bliss. Anyway, you owe me, Cap. They’re like vultures out there, circling, waiting for a piece of fact-based bread to turn into backpage headlines.”  
  
“TV doesn’t have backpages,” Killian pointed out. Will grumbled a string of words under his breath that made Emma thankful neither Roland nor Henry were anywhere in sight and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in reproach. “And thanks.”   
  
Will hummed. “No problem.”

The doors swung open again and the entire Mills-Locksley family, plus Henry, appeared behind them – a mix of varying emotions on their faces. Henry looked thrilled to be there – his ancient Jones jersey on already – and it took three full seconds for Roland to leap at Liam, the elder Jones brother groaning slightly when a child collided with his stomach. Robin kept glancing nervously in Killian’s direction, eyes widening like he was trying to project some message silently, and Regina looked like she was about to commit murder in the middle of the Chelsea Piers rink.

Maybe on the ice. That probably would have been more poetic.

“Don’t do it, Gina” Killian said quickly. The telepathic message must have worked. Robin looked like he was breathing for the first time in days. “We’ve already got a plan.”  
  
Regina didn’t say anything, just stared at Killian and all of them seemed to freeze. “I’m serious,” Killian continued, stepping forward to grip both of her shoulders. “Take the murder face off.”   
  
Scarlet laughed and Liam tried to shift Roland so it wasn’t quite so obvious he was hysterical as well. Regina’s mouth twitched.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

Emma ran through the details again – holding up both hands when Regina tried to cut her off, no less, than five times. She even stomped her foot once when Emma explained that Killian had decided to give a quote after the game.

“No,” Emma said. “We’re not changing again. This is what we’re doing and this going to work and this game is going to be…” She cut herself off, aware of the _children_ in the immediate area, and nodded once. “Awesome. It’s going to be awesome.”   
  
“Nice save,” Regina muttered, but there was a hint of admiration in her voice.

“Ok. So, we’ll do Locked In while you guys are in the locker room and then we’ll start bringing the fans in an hour before and Scarlet you can get out in the crowd and banter and then we’ll play the video and play the game and we’ll bring some of the kids out on the ice.”  
  
Henry and Roland both perked up at that – tugging on respective jerseys and rushing over words that sounded a lot like _when_ and _how long_ and _can we shoot_ – and Regina pulled both their hands away with practiced ease, smiling at both of them with a look Emma couldn't quite define.

She stared at Killian, the confusion on his face obvious.

“We know the schedule, Emma,” Will said, butting into the conversation and he was already halfway on his way to the locker room.

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian and Robin said in tandem. Liam was never going to stop laughing.

“If you know it, prove it,” Emma challenged, smiling at the slightly stunned look on his face. “And don’t swear on Locked In or Ruby will kill you.”  
  
“I will,” Ruby promised.

This was going to work.

“Alright,” Emma said quickly, nodding once for emphasis and Killian kept staring at her. “Huddle up and go team!”

They all laughed at her. Killian kissed the top of her head again, fingers brushing over the curve of her shoulder and Emma was vaguely aware of a camera snapping somewhere. That wasn’t a fan. She didn’t care.

She had an event to save.

They were, it seemed, a very good team. And Archie Hopper ran Chelsea Piers at some other, indiscernible level of efficiency, far too prepared to deal with the crowd that hadn’t stopped screaming to see one or both of the Jones brothers for what felt like days.

He ushered the season-tickets and the Casino Night high-bidders and the few fans who had managed to get tickets into the rink, smiling and thanking them for coming and Emma was a bit stunned by all of it.

She was a bit stunned every time she turned around – they all did their jobs.

Ruby got the media horde to agree to Killian’s terms with ease, only having to threaten access once before the whole lot of them nodded and promised to put Henry on the nightly news. Robin ran through the video with something that almost felt like professionalism until he started making fun of Killian’s outfit choice – he was wearing a _vest_ – and the whole thing fell into comedy far quicker than any of the videos had.

The fans would love it.

And Regina helped, _helped_ , organizing the celebrities that had shown up, getting them in front of the media horde as well and making sure the season-tickets didn’t swarm when a handful of them noticed the two New York Giants players who agreed to appear in the stands.

Mary Margaret teamed up with Aurora, making sure the GD kids and Roland and Henry got pads and skates and didn’t trip over any of them, waiting with Phillip on the far side of the ice for their cue before the Anthem.

David tailed behind Emma, falling in step with Merida as the two of them argued over who should break down the to-do-list. He was arguing to be Emma’s assistant.

She’d probably mention that in her Maid of Honor speech.

It felt like a team. It looked like a team. It worked like a team that was on the brink of a Stanley Cup run and the muscles in Emma’s face were threatening to stretch from overuse.

They were somewhere in the middle of the third period – Phillip the Rookie’s team up two goals on Killian’s squad and he must have been taking tips from Arthur because he was pacing behind the bench like there was some sort of actual prize to this.

“Here you go,” David said, appearing out of nowhere next to Emma’s shoulder with a cup in his hand and a smile on his face.

“Oh,” Emma muttered as she narrowed her eyes. “I know that face.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nah, nah, nah. You’re thinking something. You’ve got your thinking face on. Is something wrong?”  
  
“What could possibly be wrong? This whole day has been pretty perfect.”   
  
“If you’re trying to get something out of me, David, you just have to ask. There’s no need to butter me up.”   
  
“There’s no buttering,” he promised, pressing the cup into her hand. “It’s hot chocolate, figured you could use some afternoon pep.”   
  
“Why?”

“Have you seen yourself today? You’ve been on a mission.”  
  
Emma scoffed, but it was kind of true. David would know – he’d been following her around all day. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she muttered, taking a sip of the hot chocolate. He’d put cinnamon in it. She couldn’t imagine where he found cinnamon.

“Do what?”  
  
“Follow me around all day. Argue with Mer about who got to do what. I mean you’re a detective in the NYPD, trailing after me seems kind of below your station.”   
  
David stared at her like he couldn’t quite believe what she’d just said and Emma tried to hide behind her hot chocolate cup. “You can’t possibly think that.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about if we’re being honest.”   
  
“Exactly.” Emma pulled her coffee cup away and David’s smile still had a flash of disappointment to it. “Exactly,” he repeated. “You did all of this Em, but more importantly you got all of us to do this. And you didn’t even realize. This whole team would do whatever you asked, probably before you even got around to asking it.”   
  
Emma’s stomach fluttered and she shouldn’t have drank the hot chocolate so quickly, the heat lingering in the back of her throat. She felt like she was sweating in the middle of a hockey rink.

“That’s probably just because Killian’ll check ‘em all if they don’t,” she mumbled.

David sighed and his hand found its way back to her shoulder. “Look at me,” he said and it sounded a bit like a demand. “It is not because of that. This is all because of you.”  
  
Emma tried not to believe him. She did. She tried to list off all the reasons that she shouldn’t, that she wasn’t part of the _team_ , but the bullet points wouldn’t appear, even when she squeezed her eyes shut.

And Killian hadn’t said anything in the lobby, no Captain-issued commands to follow Emma no matter what, just an entire NHL team and her two best friends, following her without question. Go team, indeed.

“Can’t even argue can you?” David laughed, squeezing Emma’s shoulder.

She opened one eye and he was still smiling at her. “When’d you get so smart?”  
  
“I’ve always been this smart.”   
  
“I don’t remember that at all.”   
  
“And here I am dishing out compliments.”   
  
Emma opened her other eye and it was like she felt something sink into place or melt out of place and she was still sweating just a bit. It was ruining the moment. “And using your one day off to help me,” she added, inching closer to him until her forehead found the crook of his neck.

He felt solid and smelled clean and his arm inched around her shoulders, hand cupping the back of her head immediately. “Without question, Em,” David muttered.

“I’m really happy,” Emma whispered, voice so low she wasn’t even sure she’d actually said it out loud.

“I know.”

It sounded more important than a few words whispered in a sell-out hockey rink.

“Oh man, did I miss a moment?” Mary Margaret asked, sliding into the aisle and falling into the empty seat next to Emma.

“Nah,” Emma mumbled, pushing away from David with a bit of more flourish than absolutely necessary. “I was just trying to recruit David to be my assistant. He’s painfully good at bringing me hot chocolate.”

Mary Margaret actually _oooohed_ hands pressed up against her lips – until Liam checked Locksley into one of the boards and then the crowd _oooohed_ and stamped their feet and Emma’s eyes were as wide as saucers.   
  
“Oh, God,” she sighed. “El’s going to kill me.” David glanced at Mary Margaret over Emma’s head, eyes doing something obvious and ridiculous. “You guys are really bad at that, you know,” Emma added.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mary Margaret argued.

“You’re a terrible liar.”  
  
“And you haven’t stopped smiling all day. Or been home in a week. Where’s your toothbrush?”   
  
“Are you stalking my toothbrush, Reese’s? That seems like micromanaging parenting.”

“Why are you still on this parenting kick?”

“You just asked me why I haven’t been home in a week,” Emma pointed out, tapping on the top of Mary Margaret’s hand. “Seems awful maternal.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Mary Margaret sputtered and _she_ couldn’t argue either. David laughed. “Whatever.”   
  
“Eloquent.”

Liam scored – making some sort of impossible move in front of Jefferson that had him nearly flat on his back and Emma felt her mouth fall open in amazement. And she thought it would be better this way, was _certain_ of it. She put Liam on Phillip’s team. She didn’t want Killian to have to coach his brother. That just seemed like asking for problems.

She hadn’t quite counted on Liam scoring a hat trick. There was merch on the ice, fans holding up program covers with comic book Liam Jones on the front and they were chanting his name and Emma leaned forward to find Killian pacing behind his bench.

“Damn,” Emma sighed.

Mary Margaret and David exchanged that same look again.

“He would have done it no matter what,” Mary Margaret said and there was something actually _maternal_ in the way she patted Emma’s back.

“I know he would have.”  
  
“Good.”   
  
Killian didn’t break any whiteboards – there hadn’t been any whiteboards, it wasn’t an actual game – but it might have been close and Emma saw his shoulders move under his suit jacket when the final buzzer went off and they brought the kids onto the ice.

Killian Jones didn’t like to lose.

Killian Jones liked to be the best.

And Emma Swan probably should have known better.

She pulled her phone out again before she could think better or, more importantly, before she could talk herself out of it, fingers flying across the screen, almost matching up perfectly to the sound of the several dozen kids out on the ice.

_Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, might actually have changed everything. And Emma Swan, director of the New York Rangers community relations department, loves him. A lot. And left her toothbrush in his apartment._

Mary Margaret smiled at her like she knew exactly what Emma had typed – Emma wasn’t entirely convinced she hadn’t – and pulled her up as soon as the kids were ushered off the ice, tugging her into a fierce hug in the middle of the aisle.

“If I say I’m proud of you right now will you actually yell at me?” Mary Margaret asked, voice a bit shaky as she tried not to actually cry in the middle of Chelsea Piers.

“Probably not,” Emma said.

“Good.”

Emma hugged back and David’s hand found its way back to her head and she could only think of one word when she walked back towards the lobby – home.

They moved as some sort of three-headed group, smiles on their faces and pride in the pit of their stomach and it lasted as far as three flights of stairs and one hallway. Ruby was shouting and the reporters were shouting and Killian kept blinking in the face of half a dozen camera lights.

Regina was pacing in the far corner of the lobby – looking like he was stalking some kind of prey – Roland and Henry a few feet away, tucked into a corner on either side of Robin with Will standing protectively in front of them.

Emma tried to swallow down the ball of nerves that had suddenly appeared in the back of her throat and, for the second time, she regretted drinking all that hot chocolate. “It’s going to be ok,” Mary Margaret promised, a perpetual beacon of hope and positivity standing right next to Emma.

“I hope so,” Emma muttered. Mary Margaret squeezed her hand.

The reporters started shouting and Killian blinked again, raising his hand to try and shield his eyes. “Put your hand down, Cap,” one of them said and it didn’t sound like a request.

“Alright,” Killian said, hardly trying to keep the acid out of his voice. “You guys get five questions. One of them needs to be about the game. That’s it. Go.”  
  
The crack in his voice gave the horde pause for all of half a second and then they all started shouting again.

“Guys, guys, one at a time,” Ruby yelled and the crowd quieted for a moment. “Jake, you go.”  
  
A guy, apparently Jake, grinned at the rest of them when he realized he had control and he practically threw his hand and his recorder in Killian’s face. “Cap,” he started, as if Killian didn’t know who he was. “Any comment on the Rangers not wanting you to come back and that source in LA saying the interest had died down ahead of the deadline?”   
  
“That’s two questions,” Killian hissed, patience almost visibly wearing thin. “Pick one.”

Jake looked stunned. “The second one.”  
  
“Which was?”   
  
“A source in LA claiming interest in your trade potential has died down ahead of the deadline.”   
  
The room went silent and Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma so quickly she wasn’t positive she hadn’t just imagined it. “I have no idea what anyone else is saying about me,” Killian said. “I’m just focused on winning a Cup.”   
  
“You think that’s possible?”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“This season?”   
  
“Why would I care about anything except this season?”   
  
“But you guys aren’t even locked into a Wild Card yet.”   
  
“There’s still a good chunk of regular season left.”   
  
It felt a bit like watching some sort of overly emotional tennis match, everyone’s heads snapping back and forth with each question and answer and Emma wasn’t certain she was breathing. Mary Margaret’s hand felt like a vice.

“What about her?” Jake asked, nodding in Emma’s direction. The air flew out of the room – or maybe just out of her lungs. David shifted to his right, nearly side-stepping in front of her, older brother mode, anti-media version, activated.

Killian’s eyes looked like slits, blue barely visible and his teeth scraped over his top lip. “No,” he said, like that answered the question.

“No, what?”  
  
“No comment. No answer. No fill in the goddamn blank,” Killian yelled, voice picking up with every word. He seemed to grow a few feet too, shoulders rolling back and eyes widening and they weren’t blue anymore, they were navy and furious.

Jake blinked. The cameras were still rolling.

“Alright,” Ruby snapped, pushing her way through the crowd and she looked even taller than Killian. It was probably the heels. “No more questions. We’re done.”  
  
The crowd started to growl, questions overlapping each other again and Emma was worried about some sort of media insurrection. “Wait, wait,” a reporter shouted and Killian stopped in his tracks. “What about the game?”   
  
“What game?” Ruby asked.

“This one. The one you made us all watch. Cap said we got one question about the game.”

Ruby sighed – there might have been steam coming out of her ears. “Ask it then.”  
  
The faceless reporter pressed forward, a camera and a set of hands in Killian’s face as the crowd parted in front of him. “You looked a little stressed out there, Cap,” he started. Emma still wasn’t breathing. “Was it seeing Liam out on the ice again or coming up short in your girlfriend’s game?”

Mary Margaret’s gasp was audible and David moved in front of Emma before she could actually storm the media scrum. She didn’t have to be worried about them, they should have been worried about her.

Killian tilted his head, drumming his fingers on the back of his left hand and Liam moved into the room. He dropped his hand on Roland’s shoulder, pulling the kid up against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he waited.

They all waited.

“Liam skated as well as he did when we played here,” Killian said slowly, a measured answer Emma was certain he’d practiced at some point. “Better, actually. Guess the time off’s done him some good.” The joke didn’t really work. Emma’s ribs were threatening to crack in half.

Killian took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut and his smile looked honest when he stared at the camera again. “I’m glad Liam got back on the ice, glad we got to all play and glad Phillip got some bragging rights during a great rookie season. I did my best to coach, chewed gum like a proper coach and everything. Although our whiteboard supply was woefully low, so I guess Arthur’s still got the edge on me there.

But, more importantly, I’m glad we got to highlight the great work Garden of Dreams does and the great work Emma Swan does for this team and how many deserving kids there are in this city. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Put that in your lede.”  
  
Emma blinked, knuckles pressing into her cheek as she ducked her head down to her feet. Sentimental idiots, the both of them.

“Ok, that’s it, for real this time,” Ruby announced, tugging Killian back through the crowd without another word.

He winked at her before he left.

* * *

They went to the restaurant afterwards because, of course, they went to the restaurant afterwards, and everyone gave Elsa a different version of the day, lining up in front of the phone in Liam’s hand.

There were onion rings and laughing and Henry didn’t stop smiling once, practically joined at the hip by Roland who, it appeared, had found some sort of hero. Emma had to stop Henry from thanking her more than a dozen times.

She’d start to cry again if he kept doing that.

And they left far later than they should have, weighed down by more food than any of them should have eaten in the middle of the season, and Emma was only slightly confused when Henry left with the Mills-Locksley family, head lolling against the side of Robin’s arm while he walked towards the waiting town car outside.

“You understand what’s going on there?” Emma asked, leaning up from where she was perched on Killian’s side.

He shook his head. “None.”  
  
“Weird.”   
  
He made a noise in the back of his throat and the look on his face caught Emma by surprise – it looked a bit like wonder and just a hint of longing. “What?” she asked.

“Just nice.”  
  
“Mmmm,” Emma hummed, tugging on the tie he hadn’t bothered taking off. He’d at least unbuttoned his vest. “You want to get out of here? I’m exhausted.”   
  
“I can walk you back up.” Emma growled softly, pulling a bit tighter than necessary on his tie. He winced. “Ow, jeez, what?”   
  
“Come on, take me home,” she said, appreciating the way his eyes light up at that word.

Killian kissed her forehead, squeezing his hands on the side of her hips. “Sure, Swan.”

They walked. They didn’t have to and neither one of them really agreed to it, twenty blocks in early March not particularly warm, but they just seemed to fall into a rhythm, hands finding each other as soon as they stepped out of the restaurant.

There was no elevator makeout, no bodies pressed up against walls or dramatic sighs when lips crashed against lips. There was just the steady weight of Killian’s hand on her back, the feel of his smile when he kissed along her neck and Emma let herself lean into it as the door clicked shut behind them.

“I got your text,” Killian muttered, turning her around to face him.

“Yeah?”  
  
“And I’d do it again. The whole day and the questions and Liam’s hat trick. All of it, without question.”   
  
“Why?” Emma asked, already sure of the answer she’d get.

“Because of you. No matter what. And you left your toothbrush on my sink this morning.”  
  
“Did you notice before the text?”   
  
Killian nodded slowly, smile inching across his face and Emma’s stomach did several somersaults before sticking the landing on both the vault and the balance beam. “Way before the text.”  
  
“Figures,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry about today though. I didn’t...I didn’t think you’d have to deal with that.”   
  
“You can’t control the stories, Swan. Neither can I, as much as I may want to. As long as I know I’ve got the rest of it, though, I’ll be fine. Liam’s hat trick aside because he’s just going to be insufferable about that for the next decade, at least.”

“El was thrilled.”  
  
“Of course she was, she’s his own built-in cheerleader.”

“How was Locked In? I never asked.”  
  
“Ah, well you had some other things to deal with,” Killian shrugged, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear so softly that Emma had to close her eyes so she’d be able to commit the moment to eternal memory.

“It went well, didn’t it?” Emma asked.

“Better. How much did you raise?”  
  
“I’d have to get final figures from Aurora, but somewhere over $50K I think. It depends on how much we were able to auction off. People bought those programs like they were actual blocks of gold.”   
  
“You know what Henry told me?” Killian asked.

“What?”  
  
“That he’s thinking of going to BU.”   
  
He said it so simply that it shouldn’t have sounded like he’d just recited the Declaration of Independence entirely by memory, but it did. It felt like every single letter had sunk into Emma’s skin and her bloodstream and a slew of other medically impossible metaphors that she never would have been able to come up with before she got to New York and this team.

Her team.

It was _her_ team.

“He said he was nervous to tell you,” Killian continued. Emma let out a shaky breath, mouth forming an almost perfect ‘o’ as she exhaled. “You did that, Swan. You changed that kid’s whole life.”  
  
“They’re still going to close his house though,” she argued, coming up with the counterpoint before she could stop herself.

Killian laughed, like he’d expected it. “You can’t control everything, love,” he said. He wasn’t just talking about Henry’s house or the game or making sure reporters asked appropriate questions regarding his free agent status or them. “I’m sorry about that too.”

“Don’t be. We were living on borrowed time on that front I think.”  
  
“We never were very good at under the radar.”

Emma let out a watery laugh, giving up on the whole _not crying_ thing as soon as the words sunk into her. “And the rest of it?” she repeated. “You said you’d be ok because of  ‘the rest of it.’”

“Still you, Swan. Always.”  
  
She fell asleep with a smile on her face and an arm around her stomach and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, Emma Swan was happy.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy game day! Thus begins the absolute horrible'ness of the New York media in this story. They're the worst. And there's still so much set to happen in this story. I'm so glad you guys are still enjoying it and feeling things about it and continuing to tell me. Honestly, it makes my day every time. 
> 
> This would be nothing without @laurenorder. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	33. Chapter 33

“What are those?” Killian asked, narrowing his eyes at his phone screen.

Emma laughed on the other line, several hundred miles and state lines away, and half a dozen of his organs seemed to contract at once. “You’ve never seen flowers before?” she asked, obviously stretching her arm out until the entire frame was just a sea of red roses.

“I am aware of what flowers are, Swan, I’m just curious why you’re sticking your phone in them.”  
  
The laugh was a huff now and Killian felt himself smiling out of instinct – and maybe missing her a bit more than he realized before this FaceTime phone call.

It was easier if he could see her though.

And it was deadline day.

She hadn’t even grumbled about how early it was – not _really_ , but early by Emma-standards on a Sunday seemed to be any time before noon – and he was already at the arena and she was sitting in her office, feet propped up on her desk, just a few inches away from, what appeared, to be two dozen roses in the corner.

“Ok,” she said, spinning the camera back around until all he could see was her face and that infuriating piece of hair that never wanted to cooperate when she pulled it up into a ponytail. “Several things. First of all, I didn’t stick my phone into them. I was _showing_ them to you. And second of all, shouldn’t you be at pre-game or at least in front of a locker?”  
  
The answer, of course, was yes. He should have been at his locker, at least, fifteen minutes ago and he had been – at least for a little while. He was, after all, already in pads, but then he could hear the media making their way into the room before puck drop at noon and, suddenly, there was nowhere in the entire world Killian Jones wanted to be less than in front of his visitor’s locker in Minnesota.

There was something almost oddly poetic about deadline day happening while they were in Minnesota. Anna had mentioned it several times in the last week – practically _crowing_ about the vest Killian wore to coach his losing team and then announcing, in no unquestioned terms, that this road trip was some kind of sign.

It, apparently, meant something.

Killian only thought it meant he couldn’t be near his girlfriend when things, quite possibly, went to complete shit.

He’d never felt more clingy in his life.

“And,” Emma added, eyebrows pulled low like he hadn’t responded simply because he didn’t appreciate her first two points. “You’re the one who called me.”  
  
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you,” Killian said, trying, and, failing to make his smile look convincing.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Who are the flowers from, Swan?”  
  
“Couldn’t you read the card? That’s why I moved the phone forward.”   
  
“I thought you were just pushing your phone into the vegetation.”   
  
“Vegetation,” she repeated and he’d probably be able to score six goals that afternoon fueled only on the sound of her laugh. “That’s awfully clinical.”   
  
Killian shrugged, pushing back into the corner he’d taken up residence in. “Where are you, anyway?” Emma continued.

“I have no idea honestly,” he said. “I walked out of the locker room, called you and found this very comfortable, dark corner that I’m considering claiming as my own.”  
  
“You’re half dressed though.”   
  
“Also true.”   
  
Emma clicked her tongue, mouth twisting slightly and he knew there were more questions, knew exactly what she wanted to ask – why he was considering claiming this very comfortable, dark corner as his own. He didn’t really have an answer.

At least he didn’t have an answer that wasn’t, simply, deadline day.

“Mrs. Vankald,” Emma said suddenly, voice catching him off guard. He nearly slid down the wall.

“What?”  
  
“Mrs. Vankald,” she repeated. The smile on her face probably could have helped set up several goals as well. He was primed for some kind of record day at this point. Maybe that would make the deadline easier to deal with.

“Mrs. V is sending you flowers.”  
  
“Was that supposed to be a question? It didn’t really sound like a question.”   
  
“I have no idea,” Killian said and, well, at least it was honest. Emma’s laugh sounded a little sad – that probably wouldn’t score any goals or notch any assists.

He needed to stop this train of thought.

He needed to go back to his locker.

He didn’t want to answer anymore questions.

Killian already felt like he’d stolen the charity game – and someday he was going to do something about stories coming out at the most inopportune moments, but it felt a little ungrateful to start spouting things about _the media_ at this point in his career.

And Regina had told him – with a very specific look on her face – that he was only supposed to make comments on the games and the standings and how determined he was to win a Stanley Cup this season.

There would be no comments about the impending trade deadline or his contract or if the Rangers had changed their mind on that Cup Clause. Scarlet was still bragging about coming up with that.

Killian had checked him during morning skate.

“She wrote a note,” Emma added, voice barely above a whisper and, oh, he was an idiot. He’d thought, well, he’d thought a lot in the last week and she hadn’t even been upset about commandeering her event and the press for her event, just asked him to take her home and left a toothbrush on his sink like she belonged there.

She did.

He wanted her there. And he didn’t want to even consider another offer that afternoon – had told Regina that more times than he could remember at this point. Probably as often as she’d told him to only talk about the standing in post-game and pre-game and daily media availability.

He’d held up his end of the bargain.

He just hoped she had too.

And he hoped Emma wasn’t bordering somewhere close to terrified because Mrs. Vankald had leapt over the blue line and into the crease and was probably standing on top of the net now, swatting at anyone else who came close with a goalie stick, trying to make sure that this relationship _worked._

“I’ll call her,” Killian muttered, wondering when he’d find five seconds to do that when he was supposed to be at his locker already and on the ice in an hour and a half.

Emma blinked, jerking her head back slightly. “Wait, what?”

“What does the card say?”  
  
“That she was thankful for the tickets to Casino Night and getting Liam back on the ice and she really enjoyed the latest episode of Locked In. She called it that by the way, so she’s obviously listening to you because you’re the one who started a nickname for a fake show.”   
  
“Don’t let Locksley hear you call it fake,” he cut in, some of his nerves forgotten as soon as Emma’s eyes met his.

He wasn’t just clingy. He was far too emotional for his own good.

Maybe he’d get a few penalty minutes that afternoon too. Just to work out some of that residual emotion.

“Strangely enough, Robin Locksley isn’t FaceTiming me an hour and a half before he’s supposed to get on the ice,” Emma said knowingly, eyebrows lifting slightly. It didn’t _sound_ like an accusation. It didn’t really have to.

Killian sank onto the ground, legs stretched out unceremoniously in front of him as he held his phone loosely in his hand. “Yeah, that’d probably be weird,” he admitted.

“Probably.”  
  
“They are nice flowers.”   
  
“Made my whole office smell like a garden instead of game-worn jerseys we’re going to sell.”   
  
“Why didn’t Kristoff take those?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes and her chair creaked when she moved. “Because he’s got a million and one other things to deal with, especially if you guys get someone or several new someones later on today.”   
  
“Or lose someone.”   
  
It was like Emma had been waiting for it, eyebrows moving up her forehead slowly and with as much meaning as that almost accusation from a few minutes before. “Is that why you’re hiding in the corner, then?”

“No one is hiding.”  
  
“Alright,” she amended. That piece of hair would be the death of him. “No hiding. Is that why you’re mad about me getting flowers from Mrs. Vankald and threatening to call her?”   
  
“I probably should call her,” Killian admitted. They’d been at the charity game – several clichés exchanged via text messages about Liam getting back to the top of the hockey mountain and Killian had only half listened, that obnoxious little voice in the back of his head that liked to remind him how guilty he should feel at all times, rearing its head as soon as his brother laced up his skates.

Liam stayed at the brownstone and took them to dinner the day after the game and Killian had come up with several almost plausible excuses as to why he didn’t go. The Vankalds believed him. Liam didn’t.

Liam just nodded slowly, eyes bright and a very specific look on his face and he told Killian to _say bye to Emma_ before he got in a cab and a flight back to Colorado.

He wished he’d won that charity game.

And not stolen Emma’s thunder.

The uncertainty of it all was, he was convinced, slowly driving him crazy.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, shaking him out of his own thoughts and that was probably for the best. “We agreed. No guilt circle.” She smiled and the voice in the back of his head quieted just a little. And, not for the first time, he wished she’d been able to come on the road trip.

Most of the front office had. Ruby was probably, at that very moment, trying to track him down and even Zelena had flown out to Minnesota on the off chance that they signed someone new. It didn’t feel like an off chance.

“There’s no circle, love,” Killian lied.

Emma laughed again, swinging her legs off her desk and nearly knocking off another stack of papers. “Sure. You always look like that then.”  
  
“Devilishly handsome.”   
  
“Jeez,” she sighed, shaking her head, but she didn’t actually object. That felt a bit like a victory. “Come on, fess up. What’s wrong?”   
  
There shouldn’t have been anything wrong.

It was deadline day, but that didn’t really mean anything to him. Or it shouldn’t. Because Killian knew Regina’s phone battery was almost always somewhere in the realm of critically low – she’d started carrying one of those portable charger things in her pocket now and Scarlet made a robot joke a few days ago that earned him _several_ checks from Robin.

He wasn’t going anywhere, despite the rumors or the lack of rumors or however many calls Regina’s phone battery had to deal with.

And that was as terrifying as it was exciting and very, very permanent.

“Did someone else offer?” Emma asked and Killian would have been impressed if he weren’t so goddamn emotional. “You don’t think front office is going to do something stupid, do you? They wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“No, no, there’s no trade in my last deal. I don’t leave unless I want to leave.”

“And you don’t want to? Leave?”  
  
He snapped his head up so quickly he was worried he’d done permanent damage to his neck. Emma’s eyes kept darting between the flowers and the phone. “No, Swan,” Killian promised, doing his best to infuse two words with some kind of _everything_. “I’m good as is.”   
  
Good, better, perfect, slightly petrified that the flowers sitting on her desk meant more than two dozen red roses had ever meant in the history of the entire world.

“Good,” Emma said. “That makes two of us. And maybe I should get in on this phone call with Mrs. Vankald at some point.”

His neck was going to snap in half. It shouldn’t make that sound. And he shouldn’t have moved it that quickly, eyebrows practically ceiling-bound while the blush crept up Emma’s cheeks several hundred miles away.

“God damnit, Jones,” Ruby shouted at the far end of the hallway. She had her arms crossed and she must have been taking _murder glare_ lessons from Regina because the resemblance was almost uncanny.

“Uh oh, someone’s secret hiding spot has been found out,” Emma mumbled. She was still blushing. Killian rolled his eyes.

“What do you need, Lucas?” he asked. The glare got more intense. He’d run out of wall space to slink into.

“You were supposed to be in front of your locker half an hour ago,” Ruby hissed, kicking at his outstretched leg like that had personally offended her as well.

Emma made a noise on the phone and Killian tried not to groan when Ruby yanked it out of his hands. “Is this your fault?” she demanded, but her voice lacked some of its bite when she started to talking to Emma.

“Nope,” Emma answered. “I’ve got a ton of stuff to do over here, man'ing home base as it were. We’re supposed to be preparing for whoever we get. I’ve got e-mail templates set with _introducing fill in the blank_ ready to be sent to every season-ticket in the system.”   
  
“Efficient.”   
  
“Sometimes I’m good at my job.”   
  
“All the time,” Killian mumbled and Ruby scoffed.

“She already got your flowers Jones,” Ruby said. “No need to try and woo her anymore.” Emma’s face must have done something because Ruby’s eyes narrowed when neither one of them laughed appropriately at her joke. “What? Who are the flowers from?”  
  
“Mrs. Vankald,” Emma answered.

He was getting a headache. He was absolutely going to punch someone later. Roland would probably be the only one who enjoyed it.

Ruby’s mouth fell open slightly and Emma was pacing now – he could hear her footsteps on the video. “Isn’t that your mom?” Ruby asked, the soul of tact.

Killian made a noise, twisting his neck slightly. “It’s easier that way, I guess.”  
  
Ruby nodded – like she’d just found the last piece in a 500-piece puzzle – and Killian held his hand out expectantly for his phone. She didn’t give it to him. “You’ll both appreciate this a bit then,” she continued, tossing the newspaper Killian hadn’t noticed she was holding into his lap.

Another story.

Fuck.

He picked up that morning’s edition of _The Post_ , flipping it over to the back out of instinct. “No, no, no,” Ruby corrected. “Right smack dab in the middle.”   
  
Killian’s eyes widened and the headache had moved down his neck and in between his shoulders and it felt almost palpable in the grip he had on the paper. “What’s going on?” Emma asked.

“You see the _Post_ today, Em?”

“Nuh uh, I’ve been kind of busy.”  
  
“Convenient.”   
  
“Stop it, Lucas,” Killian muttered, trying to keep the headache out of his voice. She mimed zipping her mouth shut, leaning up against the wall and kicking at his leg again.

It took hours to get to the middle of _The New York Post_ – or it felt that way – each page adding another pang to the headache he was certain he’d never get rid of. Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d read anything except the final ten pages of _The Post_ and he wasn’t exactly certain where Page Six was.

“Page thirty-four,” Ruby said, sounding like she was handing out some sort of entertainment-journalism death sentence.

Killian’s glance flitted back up to her and her crossed arms and the slightly triumphant smile on her face. Emma was typing now, phone propped up on the vase the flowers had been sent in. “That’s not exactly quiet, Lucas,” Killian said, nearly ripping apart the newspaper in his quest to get to page thirty-four.

“I’m helping.”  
  
Killian hummed in the back of his throat and then he couldn’t really make much noise when he, finally, landed on page thirty-four. And Emma had stopped clicking.

Ruby pushed his phone back in front of his face and Emma’s expression wasn’t quite what he expected. It looked the same as when she’d explained the flowers – slightly nervous, slightly hopeful, slightly expectant with a smile that helped his headache ebb just a bit.

“Huh,” Emma said, nodding towards her laptop and the picture Killian assumed matched up with the one in his hands.

It was them. Of course it was them. At the charity game with his arm around her shoulders and his lips pressed up against her temple and they both looked so goddamn happy Killian couldn’t quite believe the caption claimed that guy was him.

Huh seemed about the best response.

“Oh, did you read the caption?” Emma continued and he didn’t expect the trace of laughter in her question.

“No,” Killian said. He’d been too busy staring at his own picture like it was the first time it had happened.

“Uh, well, Page Six seems to be under the impression I’m the reason you want to stay in New York.“  
  
“They’re not wrong,” Ruby added, finally sitting down next to Killian. Emma groaned and Killian knocked his shoulder into Ruby’s. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”   
  
Neither one of them answered.

“On the plus side,” Ruby continued, seemingly not impressed by the conversation. “You both look ridiculously good in this picture. This is like a PR director’s dream. Right, Em? Although maybe ignore the end of the caption.”

Killian’s stomach lurched and if he hadn’t wanted to go to pre-game before, he _definitely_ didn’t now – words like _marriage_ and _popping the question_ and _team player_ jumping out at him. Emma slumped back into her chair, running a hand over her face, but she hadn’t actually stopped smiling.

Huh. Again.

“I mean, it definitely could have been worse,” Emma admitted. “At least they mentioned the game. That might help sell some jerseys.”  
  
Killian had lost the ability to speak, stunned silent by the woman on the phone screen he was now, somehow, holding. And somewhere in between noticing the flowers on the corner of Emma’s desk and reading the end of a Page Six caption, he might have realized he desperately wanted the end of a Page Six caption.

Clingy. Needy. Selfish.

They should put that next to his pre-game introduction. He needed deadline day to be over. He needed this season to be over.

He needed to win a goddamn Stanley Cup.

“Exactly,” Ruby said, snapping her teeth on the word. “And, just think, now you guys don’t have to pretend at all anymore, which is disappointing for the rest of us because watching you two try and interact in a public space while also trying to pretend not to be absolutely disgustingly adorable was pretty entertaining.”  
  
“Was there a compliment in there at all?” Emma asked.

“Probably not.” Ruby clapped Killian on the knee, making him jerk back and he cringed when he hit his head against the wall. “Jumpy, huh? Come on, Cap, you missed pre, but you probably shouldn’t miss warmups either. Then Arthur will want to kill you too.”  
  
Ruby moved before he could answer, waving at Emma who smiled in return, seeming untroubled by a Page Six photo that had him frozen to the ground.

“Tell me a fact,” Emma said as soon as Ruby’s heels stopped echoing in the abandoned hallway. He hadn’t gotten up yet.

“What?”  
  
“A fact. About Minnesota.”   
  
“Well, technically, it’d be about St. Paul.”   
  
“I’d be more impressed with two.”   
  
“I’ve only got one.”   
  
Emma’s smile got wider. “I’ll take one.”   
  
He took a deep breath and the headache wasn’t quite as bad anymore. “St. Paul has more shoreline along the Mississippi River than any other city in the United States and was formerly known as Pig’s Eye or Pig’s Eye Landing.”   
  
“You made that last one up!”

“I promise, Swan, I did not. This used to be a gangster hot bed too.”  
  
She laughed loudly, head thrown back and that one piece of hair fell across her entire face. Killian finally stood up. “Ok, come on, that can’t possibly be true. I lived in Minnesota. There have never been any gangsters in Minnesota.”   
  
“How do you think they moved alcohol around during prohibition? We’ve already discussed the river.”   
  
“You’re making that up,” Emma said again, shaking her head and her hair and Killian’s heart felt like it expanded four sizes. At least.

“There is a museum.”  
  
“No!”   
  
“I’ve been,” Killian groaned, memories of that second-season trip flitting through his memory. “Next road trip, we’ll go.”   
  
Emma’s eyes widened and his impossibly large heart stuttered. Maybe he’d been reading this all wrong. “Yeah?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.”  
  
“The eye in the Wild’s logo is supposed to look like a Star. It’s an homage to the North Stars.”   
  
“I didn’t know that.”   
  
“I figured.”   
  
Killian laughed and, well, maybe the flowers weren’t that bad. Maybe Mrs. Vankald knew exactly what she was doing. He really should call her.

“You really ok, though?” Emma asked. “You must have missed pre-game.”  
  
“Oh, I totally missed pre-game. Regina is probably plotting my murder as we speak.”   
  
“Ah, I don’t know. Weren’t you only supposed to talk about the standings? I don’t think anybody wanted to talk about that.”   
  
“Hence why we’re here.”   
  
“I figured,” she repeated. Her eyes darted up when there was a knock on her door, distracted for half a moment before her smile got even wider. “Yeah, yeah, come on in guys. We’ve got a ton of jerseys to go through.”   
  
“Sorry,” Merida said, just out of frame. “I didn’t think you’d be…”

“No, no, it’s fine.”  
  
“Swan?” Killian asked, tilting his head like that would make it easier to see into her office.

The response he got wasn’t quite who he expected. “Hey, Killian,” Henry shouted, nearly pushing Emma’s chair out of the way in excitement. “Shouldn’t you be on the ice?”  
  
“Have you been talking to Regina?”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma sighed, sneaking back into the corner of the frame. “Go get on the ice, Jones. We’ve got jerseys to organize and e-mail templates to send out and stuff to do.”   
  
“Stuff?”   
  
“Lots of stuff.”   
  
“Tons,” Henry added and Killian got the distinct impression he was missing something. “A whole schedule. I even made a to-do-list for Emma’s to-do-list.”   
  
“Ok, kid,” Emma muttered, nodding towards Merida again. “You’ve efficiently proved how much stuff we have to do. Why don’t you help Mer put some jerseys and merch in boxes, ok?”   
  
He ran off as quickly as he had run in, a flash of brown hair and twelve-year-old determination and he’d been spending as much time at the Garden in the last few weeks as Killian had. And he worked there.

He was still missing something.

“I’ll call you after the game?” Killian asked and Emma nodded almost immediately.

“Yeah, that’s cool.”  
  
“You alright, Swan? You’ve gone all red.”   
  
“I have not.”

“I can see your face, love. Come on, what’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Nothing,” Emma repeated, gasping slightly when it sounded like a small mountain of merchandise had fallen over in the corner. “I’ve got to go and I’m not all that interested in hearing about Regina murdering you later, so you should probably get on the ice. I’ll talk to you later.”   
  
It didn’t feel quite right, her voice picking up the longer they were on the phone and her face was nearly scarlet. “Ok,” Killian said slowly.

“I love you.”  
  
He shouldn’t have been worried about anything. His heart felt five sizes too big now. “I love you too, Swan.”   
  
“Go score some goals.”

* * *

He scored two goals.

He’d probably brag about the second one for the rest of his life. He knew it was going in before he’d actually taken the shot, stick-handling into the zone and past a defender and the guy in front of him might have actually fallen over at some point.

Killian didn’t notice. He was too busy scoring goals. Twice.

They won and he smiled when he was named third star – certain Emma was probably grumbling over _that_ in her office a few hundred miles away – and that just made him smile even more, walking back into the locker room and the media scrum without even an ounce of the nerves that sent him into the hallway before.

“Cap! Cap! Killian! Anything about the rumors?”  
  
Killian didn’t even sigh at the questions – he was on a _roll_. Mrs. Vankald had sent Emma flowers and Emma wanted to call and thank her.

“I’m not talking about that,” Killian said, certain they were asking about Page Six and those last few words in that one particular part of the caption. “Come on guys, you’ve got to at least let me get to the locker.”  
  
The scrum started to mumble, but they did actually move, giving up a few inches of space in front of his locker. He never made it.

“Nope,” Regina snapped, grabbing a fist-full of jersey that must have been almost disgusting. He’d just spent several hours on the ice. The scrum actually groaned. They stopped as soon as Regina turned on them. “Go talk to Scarlet,” she directed, nodding towards the defenseman and his very silent locker.

“His contract isn’t up yet,” a reporter argued. Regina narrowed her eyes. The reporter practically sprinted towards Scarlet’s locker.

“You’re not supposed to be back here, Gina,” Killian mumbled, already aware he was wasting his breath. And then he didn’t have much breath in him at all, stunned by the sudden appearance of Roland on his side. “Jeez, mate,” he laughed, somehow managing to balance on his skates as he grabbed Roland around the waist. “Warn a man first.”  
  
“Sorry, Hook,” Roland chirped and Killian shook his head. “Gina says we have to talk to you.”   
  
“That so?”   
  
Roland nodded enthusiastically, chin hitting up against Killian’s shoulder pad. “Yup. Dad’s out in the hallway waiting for us.”   
  
“Of course he is.”   
  
“Don’t do that,” Regina said, already halfway out the locker room door. “And don’t try and get information out of Rol either, he’s already been told not to say anything in here around these leeches.”

Killian pushed his heels into his skates, ready, and somewhat willing, to stage a standoff in the the doorway – but Roland knocked on his back, a silent command to keep walking and, well, he was a bit of a pushover.

Robin was leaning up against the far wall a few feet away from the door – somehow already out of skates and they were both probably going to get fined if they missed post. Regina would glare even more at that.

It wasn’t good for the _image_.

Ariel was twisting the ends of her hair around one of her fingers.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Regina muttered, tapping her foot for emphasis.

“Gina I am, literally, holding your kid while trying not to trip over my own skates. Give me two seconds.”  
  
“You don’t have two seconds.”   
  
“He’s got at least two minutes,” Robin muttered and there was background noise Killian didn’t expect.

“What is that?” he asked, nodding towards the phone in Robin’s hands.

“God, Locksley, at least hold the thing up,” Liam sighed, “you’re giving Elsa vertigo over here.”  
  
Killian gripped Roland a little tighter. “Whole platoon, huh?”

“Don’t be like that, KJ,” Elsa said, leaning to her side like that would make Robin lift the phone. “C’mon Robin pull me up, all I can see is KJ’s knees.”  
  
Robin did as instructed and Killian did his best not to meet Elsa’s eyes. It probably didn’t matter much – he was certain she knew every deadline worry he’d had since he’d woken up in a Minnesota hotel.

“And we don’t really have time,” Regina cut in, tugging on the front of her jacket.

“A picture of business-like efficiency, Gina,” Killian mumbled. Roland laughed. “Alright, well you’ve called in reinforcements, so something must have happened during the game.”  
  
“You scored too many goals,” Liam said.

“Cryptic.”  
  
“Good goals though. That second one especially was nuts. The twins have been practicing that move for the last twenty minutes.”   
  
Killian smiled and he wasn’t sure if Regina rolled her eyes because of that or because they refused to stick to the unspoken schedule of this conversation.

“Can we focus, please?” Regina snapped. Roland stopped moving at that. Smart kid. “Time?”  
  
“2:54,” Robin answered immediately.

“Are we all just staring at the clock?” Killian asked. “What’s going on?” Elsa sighed. He totally knew what was going on. The deadline went official in six minutes. “And that two-minute time limit was a complete lie,” he added, smirking at Gina.

It didn’t work.

“They offered again,” Regina said.

“Who?”  
  
Several different variations of his name were shouted at once and even Roland muttered a soft Hook against the back of his jersey. He’d never been reprimanded by a seven-year-old, that seemed like some sort of backwards accomplishment.

“Don’t do it, KJ,” Elsa said, finally eye level with him after Robin moved his phone. Liam rested his hand on her shoulder and Killian could dimly make out the sound of the twins in the background, still fine-tuning their stick-handling skills.

“It’s a lot of money,” Robin muttered. “You could probably buy several mountains. And then a ski resort for good measure. You could be king of the mountain.”  
  
“Several, apparently,” Killian said.

“At least.”  
  
“No,” Elsa half-shouted and there might have been tears in her eyes. “Mom sent her flowers!”   
  
“Oh my God,” Killian sighed. “Does everyone know that?”   
  
“You should call Mom. Oh! Oh, buy her a new pillow.”  
  
“Was that Anna’s idea?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Five minutes,” Robin cut in. “Tell him how much it is, Gina.”   
  
“I would,” she hissed. “If everyone else would let me do my job.”   
  
Liam laughed – and the only reason he didn’t melt under the power of Regina’s glare was because he wasn’t actually in Minnesota. “You called us, Regina. We don’t want him here. He’s already been challenged with death if he takes this trade.”

“That’s not true, KJ,” Elsa added, determined to make sure Killian was wanted and not facing the guillotine at some point in his immediate future. “We, just, you know, think you should stay in New York. For reasons.”  
  
“You’re not good at this lying thing, El,” he laughed before groaning at a well-placed foot in his side. “Rol, you can’t keep kicking me, mate.”   
  
Regina tugged on the back of Roland’s jersey, something that didn’t quite look like _agent_ crossing over her features. It didn’t last long. “I called you to make sure that all the important people in Killian’s life are here when he makes some sort of life-changing decision.”

She took another deep breath and pushed her phone towards him, hardly even waiting for him to readjust the kid draped over his shoulder.

There were a lot of zeroes. More zeroes than he’d probably ever see in New York. He could absolutely buy several mountains.

“Fuck,” Killian muttered. The entire room clicked their tongue in unison – Roland didn’t even notice. At least not that part.

“Hey,” he said, kicking against Killian’s chest pad.

“What, mate?”

“If everyone important is here, where’s Emma?”  
  
No one clicked their tongue at that. Killian might have laughed. Or possibly guffawed. Maybe this was all a dream.

“Smart kid,” Elsa muttered from Colorado. “Don’t do it, KJ.”  
  
“It’s a lot of zeroes,” Robin countered. Elsa huffed.

“That’s true,” Killian admitted. His mouth felt dry and Roland felt like he weighed somewhere in the vicinity of eight-hundred pounds. “I might need extra PT after this, Red.”  
  
Ariel nodded. “Sure, Cap.”   
  
“Ok, but seriously, two minutes now,” Robin said as Regina’s phone started to ring in the middle of the hallway.

Nothing had ever been as loud as that phone in the middle of the hallway.

“How long, Gina?” Killian asked.

“Four years. All those zeroes.”  
  
He let out a low whistle and tried not to drop Roland on his head. Those numbers didn’t make sense together. “The headlines would probably say something like _unprecedented_ ,” Robin muttered.

Liam hummed in agreement and it sounded like Elsa smacked him.

“They’re pretty serious,” Regina added, as if those numbers didn’t prove just that. “They were under the impression so were you.”  
  
The room was spinning. He needed to find a wall. He needed to find some ice and skate out some of this pesky emotion. “That’s it?” Killian asked. “Nothing closer?”

“Closer to Emma?”  
  
“We don’t have time for this, Gina.”

She couldn’t argue that. Her phone started ringing again. “No,” Regina answered and he didn’t realize two letters could ever hold so much disappointment. “Nothing. The Stars dropped off when they realized you didn’t really care. The rest of them all ran away as soon as that story came out in LA.”  
  
Killian’s eyes darted towards Elsa out of instinct. She was resting her chin on Liam’s shoulder, standing up now with one hand on her stomach.

She absolutely knew.

Elsa shook her head slightly.

“No,” Killian said. No one had actually asked him a question.

“No,” Regina repeated. It wasn’t a question either.

“I’m not going. Tell them thanks, but no thanks. Make it nicer than that though, that was a lot of zeroes.”  
  
“I can do that.”   
  
She swiped her thumb over the front of her phone – like _that_ proved _that_ – and wandered to the far end of the hallway, muttering words under her breath that didn’t quite sound like the apology and refusal Killian had requested.

“She’s going to completely ruin my reputation,” Killian sighed, shifting Roland as he tried to back up towards the wall behind him.

“Whatever’s left of it,” Liam laughed and Elsa hit his shoulder again.

“Shut up, Liam,” Ariel snapped and there were tears on her cheeks. “This is good. Really good. And probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Sap.”  She sniffled in response. “It’s alright, Red,” Killian said. “You can go back to being your slightly frustrated with me self tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

Ariel nearly knocked him over when she launched herself at his chest and Killian was happy he’d actually managed to find the wall, arm wrapped around her waist to make sure he didn’t collapse in a heap with a seven-year-old on top of him.

“We’re never going to talk about this moment ever again, alright?” Ariel asked, voice muffled with her face pressed up against the ‘C’ on his chest.

Killian laughed in response, kissing the top of her head as Roland squirmed over both of them. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” he repeated.

Elsa was crying now too – sniffles finding their way into the hallway from Colorado – and Liam had worked her back into a chair, something about _exerting yourself_ on the tip of his tongue. Robin just looked passably amused – and a bit proud.

“Did he decide?” Will shouted, leaning into the hallway from the still-open locker room door. “Because I can’t hold off this crowd much longer.”  
  
Killian lifted one eyebrow, pulling back slightly to stare at Ariel. “So we might have come up with a plan,” she admitted.

“A plan?”

“Yeah, like, right before the game. While you were on the phone with Emma.”  
  
He couldn’t even bring himself to be mad. He waited for it – waited for the telltale signs of frustration and annoyance and _interference_ over this stupid team that wanted to push itself into the middle of Killian’s entire life.

It never got there.

Probably because it had never been there to begin with. They all just cared.

He wished Emma was there.

“Is Emma coming later?” Roland asked, pushing up on Killian’s shoulder. He shimmied down back to the floor, helped along by Ariel who had finally stopped crying, and looked up at Killian with something that felt a bit similar to the want he’d been dealing with all day.

“Nah, mate,” Killian sighed. “She’s home.”

Robin’s eyebrows moved at that, ears almost noticeably pricking up and he glanced at the phone in his hand. Elsa was never going to stop crying.

“You doing ok there, El?” Killian asked and he wasn’t fooling anyone in that hallway. They all knew he wanted Emma Swan in Minnesota and there after games and in some sort of last few words of a Page Six photo caption kind of way.

“Fine, fine,” she promised, brushing her knuckles underneath her eyes. “Go do post before you all get fined.”  
  
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Will yelled.

“How could you even hear that?” Killian asked. Will shrugged. “It’s going to be fine, El,” he added, looking back down on the screen. Liam was doing that _proud_ thing with his face again.

“Of course it is,” she said. She sounded a bit surprised that he’d ever thought any differently.

“You sure, Cap?” Robin asked, tugging Roland back to his side.

Killian sighed. He needed to shower before he went to post. “Too late now, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah. Good.”   
  
“Go answer the questions, little brother,” Liam muttered. “You can’t afford the fine anymore.”   
  
Killian scoffed – but Liam might be right – and he at least needed to get out of these skates. He was starting to lose feeling in his toes. There was waving and promises of how _fine_ it was going to be and Killian groaned when he remembered he’d left his phone in his locker.

He needed to tell Emma.

“Post first,” Robin said, somehow able to read his mind. “Then you can get all romantic and talk about the flowers Mrs. V sent again.”

Killian opened his mouth, but he didn’t even get the question out and Robin was near hysterics when they walked back into the locker room, pulled apart by a horde of press already screaming questions in his face and pushing cameras half an inch away from his nose.

It took way longer than it should have.

Killian sat in front of that visitor’s locker for nearly twenty minutes, answering every question and promising he was as dedicated to New York as he was the night he got drafted, certain this was the year and, no, he didn’t think it would be a problem to play out of the Wild Card spot.

Ruby eventually took pity on him and pushed the horde away and he actually got a chance to shower, certain the jersey would be better burnt than thrown in the pile in the corner of the locker room, and two-thirds of the Mills-Locksley family was waiting for him outside the arena.

“Come on,” Robin said, nodding towards the car parked behind him. “We’re going out.”  
  
“Out?” Killian repeated skeptically. “Your kid looks like he’s going to fall asleep standing up.”   
  
“Nah, he’s fine. You’re fine, right, Rol?”   
  
Roland nodded enthusiastically, but his eyes weren’t really open and it was nearly six o’clock and they’d all been awake for far too long. Killian hadn’t really slept the night before.

“Where exactly do you want to go?” he asked.

The driver was out of the car now. God, he was opening the doors. Killian glanced to both sides, looking for some kind of escape route or the car that should have been his and should have brought him back to his hotel room so he could FaceTime his girlfriend without an entire hockey team giving input.

“You have absolutely negative amounts of choice in this,” Robin said, nudging Roland into the middle of the back seat. “There’s no point in arguing.”  
  
“That sounds kind of menacing.”   
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“Where’s Gina?”   
  
“Getting ready.”   
  
“Ready? Are we staging a coup?”  
  
Robin sighed dramatically, the put-upon sound making Killian laugh. Maybe this could almost be fun. “No one is staging anything unless it’s dinner and quite a bit of alcohol.”   
  
“Does Arthur know?”   
  
“Arthur will be there, toasting his captain’s glorious return.”   
  
“See, now I know you’re lying. Arthur would never toast my anything. He’d just blow his whistle in my face.”   
  
“Nope,” Robin said, popping the word on his lips. “C’mon, Cap. No choice. This is happening and I can almost guarantee you’re going to enjoy this.”  
  
“Almost.”   
  
“Nothing’s a complete guarantee.”

Killian groaned, rolling his head back, but he didn’t argue anymore and he didn’t even slam the car door shut behind him.

This great, big outing that Killian was almost certain to enjoy was, apparently, a sports bar on the other side of St. Paul. There were plastic flags hanging on the awning outside. This sports bar, apparently, prided itself on its Minnesota Vikings fandom.

“Seriously?” Killian asked.

Robin was already halfway to the door. “Get out of the car, Cap.”  
  
Killian did as instructed, one hand on Roland’s shoulder as he walked across the snow-covered sidewalk and it was colder here than it had been in New York. That snow probably wouldn’t melt until June.

“I’m staying an hour, tops,” Killian said and Robin nodded, humming in the back of his throat. He was being coddled. He didn’t appreciate being coddled.

He’d turned down several zeroes and a monarchy made up entirely of mountains. He deserved one drink and a full night of sleep and the chance to get out of St. Paul as soon as humanly possible.  

The inside of the bar wasn’t much better, a mix of Budweiser signs and the faint smell of spilled alcohol that never quite got cleaned up off the floor and even more plastic flags. Those ones touted the Twins.

“Not exactly the high point of restaurants is it?” Killian asked, glancing at Robin out of the corner of his eye. Only he didn’t just see Robin.

She wasn’t wearing team merch or his numbers and her hair was still in the ponytail it had been that morning, that one piece falling across her forehead when she spun on the spot. And Killian knew his mouth dropped open, knew half of the entire New York Rangers roster and front office was staring straight at him, jam-packed into that crummy little sports bar.

He didn’t care.

He might have breathed out her name and Ariel might have started sniffling again, pushing against his back to try and get him to move. He didn’t have to.

Emma moved first.

She hit up against his chest, hands on either side of his face and lips on his and they could have been in the middle of Times Square and Killian wouldn’t have noticed anything except her. He wouldn't have cared about anything but her.

He kissed her back, arms around her waist out of instinct and he’d half lifted her up before he remembered how heavy Roland had been in that hallway. Emma’s heels popped out of her flats and her fingers carded through his hair and across the back of his neck and someone actually whistled when they didn’t break apart in an entirely appropriate amount of time.

It was probably Scarlet.

“Hey,” Emma whispered, resting her forehead on his.

“Hey.”  
  
Will groaned. “God, what a let down. And she planned this whole thing, Cap.”   
  
“Wait, what?” Killian asked. His hands wouldn’t stop moving. They kept tracing up and down her side and across her back and he, _finally_ , pushed that piece of hair back behind her ears.

Emma rolled her eyes, shooting a glare at Will for good measure. “That’s not really true. Regina and Ariel found the restaurant. They just told me where to go once I told them I was coming.”  
  
“But, no, how?”   
  
She smiled when he started stuttering over the words, lips brushing over his and now he really wanted to leave this sports bar. “They have these newfangled things called planes. I got on one this afternoon and it brought me to Minnesota. In barely enough time, but that’s a whole other story.”   
  
“No, I understand how aviation works, Swan. But I talked to you today. You were in your office. Putting jerseys in boxes.”   
  
“That’s true. I did that.”   
  
“So how are you here?”   
  
“I feel like we’re going in circles.” Emma blinked once, lips pressed together thoughtfully and her eyes fell down to her shoes. “Is it ok that I’m here?” she whispered. “I didn’t...I didn’t really ask. I just kind of figured…”

He kissed her quiet. And it was completely inappropriate and made for Page Six and those words he thought about every time his stick hit the puck that afternoon.

“Of course it’s fine, Swan,” Killian said. “Better.”

“It’s just deadline day,” she mumbled as if that explained why she’d gotten on a plan that morning. It kind of did.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”  
  
They weren’t the focus of the entire restaurant anymore – Robin taking pity on them and shouting something about drinks and darts and celebrating another win – and it was loud and crowded and all Killian saw was green and yellow and that striped shirt she was wearing.

“Figured it might be better than just a face on a screen,” Emma said.

“Infinitely. You really got on a plane though? How come you didn’t tell me?”  
  
“It was supposed to be a surprise. I thought we were done for as soon as Mer and Henry got there. He’s known about it for days.”   
  
“You were planning this for days?” His heart was seven sizes too big now. He’d skipped over size six entirely.

Emma nodded, fingers tracing over a vein in his neck. “Reese’s had to get her credit card points to go through.”

He didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity, couldn’t come up with a single word or thought or anything that wasn’t how ridiculously in love he was with Emma Swan. It’d probably fuel the entire playoff run.

“Mary Margaret did that?” Killian asked and Emma smiled in response. “I’ll have to thank her.”  
  
“She offered.”   
  
“That’s even nicer.”   
  
“She’s super psyched you’re my plus-one too. I think her exact words were _over the moon_. She’s been waiting for this moment since August.”   
  
“Shame we kept her waiting that long.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, burrowing her forehead against his shoulder and if he hugged her any tighter he’d probably crush something. “I know we said we’d do that whole gangster museum thing when we were both in St. Paul, but do you think we could save that one for the next road trip? I’d really be interested in seeing your hotel room.”   
  
“That so?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow and she rolled her eyes at the smirk. It had never worked to begin with.

“I promised we’d stay an hour. At most. Mostly to shut up Scarlet.”  
  
“Forget Scarlet, let’s just go now.”   
  
“Enthused, huh?”   
  
“Anxious. Needy. Somewhere close to desperately needing to kiss you.”   
  
“You did that already,” Emma pointed out, tapping one finger on the front of his league-mandated tie. “Twice.”   
  
“It’s a very strong need.”

She smiled and it landed in his heart and his very center and maybe his soul. Turning more zeroes than he’d seen in his life had, apparently, turned him into a complete sap.

“Forty-five minutes,” she said, pressing up to mumble the words against his lips. “And then the room.”

They stayed for thirty-eight minutes – and Killian wouldn’t say they were staring at their phones, watching the minutes go by, but he wouldn’t have passed a lie-detector test if asked the same question. They were, by far, the longest thirty-eight minutes of his life.

Or maybe that was the car ride back to the hotel. Or the elevator or the walk down the hallway and he hoped Robin wasn’t a complete fool and stayed with Regina and Roland later because he might be acting like a teenager, but Killian drew the line at hanging a sock on the door.

He stopped caring about the time once Emma’s hands started tugging on his tie and making their way down the line of buttons on his shirt and Killian had absolutely no idea where his phone was several hours later.

The sheets were a twisted up mess and Emma’s leg was, somehow, in between his, Killian’s arm thrown haphazardly around her waist with his face pressed against her hair. It was the most comfortable he’d been all day.

“I wanted to come because I didn’t want you to be by yourself,” Emma said, voice slicing through the silence of the room.

Killian smiled against her hair, leaving kisses he wasn’t entirely certain she could feel as his fingers traced across her stomach. “I haven’t felt alone in quite some time, love,” he said softly.

“Good.” She took a deep breath and he knew she’d scrunched her nose against the pillow she was laying on. “Me either.”  
  
“Good.”

It wasn’t enough. Not by a longshot. But there weren't enough words and he couldn’t think of any other words and winning a Stanley Cup would have to do.

“You told them no, didn’t you?”  
  
“I thought you’d fallen asleep.”   
  
“With a whole night ahead and this grand romantic gesture?” Emma asked. “Hardly.” She turned around, twisting underneath his hand and they should probably just _move_ the sheets at this point. They were a hazard. “You did, didn’t you?”   
  
“Did what, Swan?”   
  
“Told the Avs no.”

He breathed in far more oxygen than he needed, closing his eyes lightly and Emma’s hand rested on his chest, thumb tracing across the line of his collarbone. And all he saw was the Page Six caption and what he wanted and the hopeful expression that had been on her face every time she looked at him.

“Yeah,” Killian said. No more secrets. “I did.”  
  
Emma bit her lip, thumb tapping on his skin. “You gave up…”   
  
“Nothing,” he interrupted. “I didn’t give up anything at all. Everything I want is here. No matter what.”   
  
Emma’s shoulders sagged and the breath seemed to rush out of her. “Ok,” she whispered. “And I’m glad I’m here too. I didn’t say that before.”

“I love you,” Killian said evenly. Ah, there were the words.

“I love you too.”

He nodded and it was as if everything just _settled_ , falling into place and finding its spot and, of course, it happened in goddamn Minnesota.

“So what happens now?” Emma asked, voice still impossibly quiet.

Killian shifted, pressing against her and he kissed her once before he answered, trying to pour every single verb he could think of into one single movement. “Now, Swan, we go win a Cup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So timeline wise, we're about a month removed from the playoffs and still kind of playing fast and loose with the rules (although this was actually pretty by the book) and the NHL doesn't really make much sense because some guy on the Avs got traded in the middle of a game yesterday and just skated off the ice to go to Ottawa. So really this league is just a mess. 
> 
> The Rangers are on a win streak though, so nothing else matters! As always you guys are absolutely fantastic and @laurenorder is fantastic and you guys should come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	34. Chapter 34

Mary Margaret was mad at her.

Well, no, Emma thought, glancing at her friend out of the corner of her eye. Maybe mad wasn’t the right word. Mary Margaret was disappointed in her.

And, somehow, that was even worse.

“This one isn’t bad,” Emma ventured, voice shaking just a bit like a fourth grader who’d forgotten to do her homework.

Mary Margaret turned towards her, eyes crossed tightly over her chest and Emma had never seen that look before. “Sure,” she said.

And then she didn’t say anything else.

Emma groaned, eyes practically flying to the ceilings of the apartment they were standing in. It was the fourth apartment they’d stood in that afternoon, traipsing across most of Manhattan to examine one-bedrooms Emma was only hopeful she could afford.

She’d decided after Minnesota and the trade deadline and Emma had spent the last week scouring apartment rental sites and CraigsList, trying to make sure the buildings at least had an elevator.

That proved harder to find than she’d hoped.

They were in apartment four and this one didn’t have an elevator, but it did have a lot of windows and something the realtor kept referring to as _open space_ and that wasn’t entirely true, because it was only one room, but it could, maybe, be Emma’s room.

She wanted her own room. She wanted roots and her own closet and a check that she didn’t hand to David. She wanted an apartment.

Because she was staying in New York and Killian was staying in New York and Emma couldn’t think about that second part for too long without her pulse almost audibly picking up.

They didn’t go to the gangster museum. They barely left the hotel room the night after the game. They barely left the bed. And it had been so goddamn perfect that, as soon as she’d woken up the next morning, Emma knew exactly what she needed to do.

“So,” said the very nice, very perky realtor started, appearing in the middle of the room next to Emma suddenly. “What do you think of this one Miss Swan?”  
  
Mary Margaret scoffed in the back of her throat and Emma couldn’t quite understand what was going on.

So, she hadn’t really asked Mary Margaret about moving out – but she didn’t think she really had to. It was, after all, her and David’s loft and while they’d taken pity on her a few weeks ago and given her the ancient air mattress that had, inexplicably been in the back corner of the closet, Emma knew they probably wouldn’t mind their space back.

And she wouldn't’ mind a bit of her own space – that she could bring her boyfriend back to. Regularly.

Emma didn’t think she needed to explain that. She just figured Mary Margaret would _know_. She’d given her the reward miles on her credit card for God’s sake. But as soon as Emma had said the words _move out_ , the smile had fallen off Mary Margaret’s face, replaced, apparently, with a never-ending look of disappointment.

“Heat included?” Emma asked and Mary Margaret made another noise.

The realtor nodded, clipboard clenched tightly in her hand as her phone vibrated loudly in her pocket. “Of course and that’s almost unheard of in this neighborhood, Miss Swan. Plus, look at all this open floor space. You’ll be able to put a couch and a chair in here.”  
  
“Ah, well, if she can put a couch and a chair,” Mary Margaret mumbled, the bitterness in her voice threatening to rot the drywall.

“Jeez, Reese’s,” Emma said. Mary Margaret shrugged. “And we’ve talked about this, Emma is totally fine,” she continued, turning her attention back to the somehow still-peppy realtor.

Emma was exhausted. They needed to pick an apartment. She had another event to get to later. There was always an event and a game and who knew the Rangers did _Garden of Dreams Night_ too, in addition to everything else.

There was more signed merch in her office.

“Emma,” the realtor repeated, sounding like she was testing out the name for size. Or square feet. “I really do need an answer sooner rather than later, though. That buzzing you’re hearing is the next candidate ready to sign the lease in a few hours.”  
  
It wasn’t. Emma would have put several months worth of rent checks on it, but she knew a tactic when she saw it and, well, there was a lot of floor space.

It could be hers. She could put some roots down in New York City. So what if it was only a few blocks away from Mary Margaret’s apartment?

It was hers. Or it would be, once she signed the lease.

There was enough space on the walls to hang some signed merch.

“Tick tock, Emma,” the realtor said before wilting slightly under the combined force of both Mary Margaret and Emma’s glare.

“Ok, well, that’s just rude,” Mary Margaret said and Emma felt the smile curling on the ends of her lips out of instinct. She might be mad at her or disappointed or _whatever_ , but Mary Margaret was, no matter what, ready to defend Emma.

Even in the face of peppy realtors who, somehow, still had shiny hair despite several taxi rides and four different apartments and no community relations event looming over her that night.

“I’ll take it,” Emma said. “Tell your fake lease phone call the apartment’s not available anymore.”  
  
The realtor’s mouth hung open slightly and that might have been half the reason Emma had taken the apartment, which might have been her competitive spirit come to light, but she also wanted it. A lot.

“Ok,” the realtor said, a smile probably based solely on the commission she was going to get out of this inching across her face. “Give me a couple of minutes to get all the papers in order and let the other person know and then you can go ahead and sign.”  
  
“Sounds great.”

The realtor moved out of the living room and back down the short hallway towards the front door and Emma all but collapsed in the middle of the floor as soon as the echo of the steps were gone.

Mary Margaret didn’t budge.

Emma rolled her eyes and sighed, frustration finally settling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Mary Margaret had a fight. Disagreements, sure, they had disagreed about how many appetizers were appropriate for a wedding two days before – Mary Margaret wanted, at least, a dozen and that just seemed excessive and then David had chimed in and there had to be sliders, obviously, and they’d shouted out their opinions for the better part of five minutes straight.

It ended with cookie dough on the couch and reruns of NCIS and all three of them had fallen asleep together.

The three musketeers – and a dozen wedding appetizers.

Mary Margaret was staring out the window, arms still crossed over her chest and she’d started tapping her foot in a move that was so Ruby it nearly made Emma burst into a fit of hysterics right there in the middle of her new living room.

Hers.

Who knew she was such a possessive freak?

“Alright,” Emma sighed, pulling her feet up underneath her. “I’ll bite. What did I do? Aside from the appetizer thing.”  
  
Mary Margaret didn’t move, but she stopped tapping her foot and her shoulders shifted slightly. And when she did, finally, spin around, Emma was certain she was on the verge of tears. “You think this is about wedding appetizers?” Mary Margaret asked, disbelief practically rolling off her in waves.

“Maybe?”  
  
“Of course not.”   
  
“Then what’s going on? You’ve been quiet all day and I mean, I know it’s not a huge apartment and it lacks a certain charm, but you guys deserve your loft back. I have overstayed my welcome by several months.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed at her. Emma hadn’t expected that.

“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret mumbled, shaking her head slightly and letting her arms fall back to her side. “You really don’t know, do you? Emma, come on.”  
  
“What? Isn’t that what’s going on? I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated it, Reese’s, but, eventually you and David are going to get married and I promised to be out before then. Tick tock as the peppy realtor pointed out.”

“Did she tell us what her name was at one point?”  
  
Emma shrugged and Mary Margaret took a few steps towards her, sinking down on the floor as well. “I think she said Jennifer or Mikayla or something that sounded as peppy as she’s been all day.”   
  
“Those are some sweeping generalizations based solely on name.”   
  
“We’ve spent a whole afternoon with her, I don’t think it’s sweeping any more,” Emma argued and Mary Margaret hummed in agreement. “I’m sorry,” Emma added.

“What?”  
  
“Sorry. I know I’m consistently bad at these kinds of things and emotions and communication, but I didn’t think you’d actually be this upset about it.”   
  
Mary Margaret blinked. “This has absolutely nothing to do with that. God, you think I’m mad you’re moving out? That’s more absurd than thinking it had something to do with appetizers.”   
  
“Well you were very serious about a round dozen.”   
  
“That’s because people should have choices and Will Scarlet can’t eat gluten.”   
  
“Will Scarlet is coming to your wedding?”   
  
“If he RSVP’s in time. That’s why we sent the invitation to Belle.”   
  
“I’ll tell Killian, he’ll get Scarlet to answer,” Emma said and Mary Margaret nearly choked on the air she was breathing. “What?”

“You really don’t know.” She sounded stunned. Emma was very confused and possibly very frustrated and she couldn’t understand what was taking Jennifer and/or Mikayla so long to get a lease she probably had in her bag already.

She made a mental note to remember to tell Killian that too.

Oh. Oh shit. Goddamn shit and fuck and every single horrible word Emma had ever heard in eight years spent working in the NHL.

She nearly collapsed, sinking down until she was flat on her back, staring at her ceiling hoping against hope that, somehow, her recently-leased hardwood floors would swallow her up. Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, laying down next to her and grabbing her wrist.

“You got there, huh?” she whispered.

“I’m the worst girlfriend in the entire history of the universe.”  
  
“Nah, I mean you went to Minnesota. That definitely counts for something.”   
  
“I didn’t even think, Reese’s. And they've been on the road and I’ve never…”  
  
Mary Margaret squeezed her hand. “I know you haven’t. But you haven’t ever had someone give up a multi-million dollar contract for you either.”   
  
Emma groaned and if the floor hadn’t swallowed her yet, she was fairly certain it wouldn’t. That seemed unfair.

She hadn’t said anything. They’d been on the road two days before –  **The world’s first frozen margarita machine was invented in Dallas in 1971. When we get home, we’re making frozen margaritas**. _Arthur won’t appreciate your alcohol consumption_ . **I don’t care. We need to buy a blender.** – and Emma hadn’t even considered it, had been so focused on finding rental sites and realtors and organizing all the merch in her office that she’d simply added _apartment_ to the to-do-list like it was just another bullet point to check off.

She thought she’d been doing something good, something momentous and slightly monumental for Emma Swan and her lingering fear of putting down roots.

She was going to get something that was _hers_ in the middle of New York City and then they’d all stay and it would be good and fine and better and her toothbrush would sit on Killian’s sink for the time being.

The possibility of something that wasn’t _just_ hers had never entered her mind – not really. So she’d read the final few words of that Page Six caption and maybe thought about them as much as the several dozen bullet points on her never-ending to-do-list, but that didn’t mean Killian was.

It was way too soon for that.

It was way too soon for _theirs_ in some kind of long-lasting domestic way.

She’d thought about it way more than she’d been willing to admit to herself.  
  
“You know,” Mary Margaret said slowly, lolling her head to the side to stare at Emma. “We never talked about Page Six.”   
  
“Well, there were appetizers to freak out over.”   
  
“Are you going to bring that up forever?”   
  
“And then some,” Emma promised. She sighed slightly and she wondered if she’d be able to paint these walls. They were very white. “You think he’s thinking that?” Emma whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, like giving voice to that particular question was something bordering close to embarrassing.

The Page Six caption used the phrase _could Cap turn down those questions when he’s thinking of popping his own?_ There’d also been some use of the words _team player_ in a way that Emma was positive was supposed to be insulting.

And she hadn’t run. She’d claimed it was good PR – for him and the team and even her efforts to fundraise for Garden of Dreams. It had mentioned the game and they’d raised even more money on the game-worn jerseys and, eventually, she was going to corner Henry and get him to tell her all his plans for BU.

No one was thinking about popping anything – unless they were bottles of tequila for the frozen margaritas they were going to make after the game that night.

Emma could feel Mary Margaret's stare – even with her eyes still closed – and she forced herself to look back, doing her best to keep the nerves off her face. It absolutely did not work. “I think he’s been thinking quite a bit for a very long time,” Mary Margaret answered.

“That’s not very specific, Reese’s. And how’d you know about the numbers with the Av’s?”  
  
“Roland Locksley.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Mary Margaret widened her eyes meaningfully. “Yup. When we in the restaurant for the Stars game. He told me, very excitedly mind you, that the Rangers had to win the Cup this year so Hook could stay in New York and he then went to explain that he’d given up some sort of offer from the Avalanche. He kept calling them the Av’s. It was very professional and painfully adorable and he informed me that the Av’s offered Hook _a lot of zeroes_.”   
  
“He didn’t happen to mention how many zeroes, did he?” Emma asked. “Like exactly?”

“Don’t you know?”  
  
“Ehh,” she mumbled and Mary Margaret’s stare intensified.

“There were stories, weren’t there? Reports and stuff?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, there were. I’ve just, uh, been avoiding them.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“Because no one has ever given up a multi-million dollar deal for me,” Emma whispered.

Mary Margaret’s mouth formed a perfect little ‘o’ and Emma was glad she didn’t have to say anything else, didn’t have to use the word _overwhelmed_ again because that wasn’t really it. She wasn’t.

She’d read the Page Six caption without wanting to run away and she’d flown to Minnesota for God’s sake. She loved Killian Jones an absolutely ridiculous amount. She knew Killian Jones loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.

She just couldn’t bring herself to look at the numbers of it.

“Are you mad?” Emma asked and this floor was, almost, comfortable. Maybe they could just stay there for the rest of the day.

“Of course not. I knew you’d move out eventually. The kid’s got to leave the nest at some point and, you’re right, it is a really nice apartment. And I know how big this is for you. I’m somewhere in the realm of proud.”  
  
“But?”   
  
“But,” Mary Margaret repeated pointedly. “I am always, no matter what, no matter what kind of lease you sign, Team Emma and Team Emma happiness and I think you should tell Killian what you’re doing.”   
  
“I couldn’t just ask him to move into his apartment, Reese’s.”   
  
“I’m not saying you should have. I’m also not saying he wouldn’t have immediately shouted _yes_ from several different skyscrapers if you had.”   
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh, the sound of Jennifer and/or Mikayla’s boots making their way back down the hallway. “You don’t…” Emma started, nearly biting her tongue when she cut herself off.

“What?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Nothing.”  
  
“Emma.”   
  
She groaned or maybe growled and neither one of them had actually sat up yet. “You don’t think it’s all kind of happening?”   
  
“As opposed to not happening?”   
  
“You know what I mean.”   
  
“I promise I don’t.”   
  
“I don’t need an exact number of zeroes,” Emma said, pushing herself up and resting her chin on her knees. “There were a lot, I’m sure. He wanted to go to the Av’s at the beginning of the season and the Av’s wanted him and I think they were the only team that stayed on after that story came out in LA.”   
  
“So?”

“So he told them no and he’s going to stay in New York, but the Rangers don’t want to make a move without a Cup and…”  
  
She trailed off, biting the side of her tongue again and she could see the exact moment Mary Margaret understood. “Oh,” she said and there was a sadness in her voice that was even worse than the disappointed look on her face. “You think it won’t be enough. If they don’t win and he doesn’t sign.”   
  
Emma shrugged, not quite able to give voice to the worry that she’d been pointedly trying to ignore for the last week.

“Of course you will,” Mary Margaret said, wrapping her fingers around Emma’s forearms.

“I hope,” Emma mumbled. Jennifer and/or Mikayla was coughing meaningfully a few feet away.

“That’s a step in the right direction.”  
  
“Is it? Because I seem to be kind of just weaving my way through traffic here.”

“This is good, Emma,” Mary Margaret promised. Teacher voice. “You being here and this lease and no matter what my face was doing before, I know this is important, but…”  
  
“Of course there’s a but.”   
  
Mary Margaret quirked an eyebrow and Emma held up her hands in acquiesce. “But you have been so happy these last few months and so _certain_ and I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”   
  
“Except a considerable amount of zeroes and winning a Stanley Cup.”   
  
“Well, yeah,” Mary Margaret admitted. “But nothing when it comes to the rest of it. And you’ve always got a couch waiting for you. No matter what.”   
  
“Pop-Tarts too?”   
  
“Obviously.”

She signed the lease.

* * *

If Emma never saw another piece of New York Rangers signed merchandise it would be too soon.

She barely even saw any of the game – holed away in her office like some sort of community relations dragon, guarding over signed sticks and jerseys and certificates promising _one of a kind_ experiences with the most famous New York Rangers.

There was no end in sight. She’d never get out of her office. There was only signed merch and team-branded and Emma was half convinced she’d still see the Rangers shield when she closed her eyes later that night.

Emma groaned flipping her hair over her shoulder and tried to refocus. She glanced around her, something akin to terror shooting down her spine when she realized she’d lost her list.

“Damnit,” she mumbled, twisting her neck almost painfully in an attempt to find sheet of paper in the middle of several thousands of dollars worth of merch.

She hadn’t even gotten to man the auction phones downstairs – and, strictly speaking, that was kind of frustrating. That was more her job than Aurora’s.

Aurora should be up here – or in her own office, at least – with mountains of merch and missing to-do-lists and the gnawing worry eating away at the back of her mind about how she was going to tell her boyfriend that she’d signed a lease on an apartment without even mentioning that she was looking at apartments.

On her own.

Emma had always been on her own and while she’d lost the urge to run at this point, there was something about getting something that was _just hers_ in this giant, stupid city that had changed everything.

She still probably should have told Killian.

Emma groaned again when her hair got caught up in her laces and, well, that didn’t seem fair at all. She tried to pull herself away from the laces and _the signs_ , while making sure each item got matched up with a fan.

The knock on her office door nearly gave her a heart attack.

“Sorry, sorry,” Henry laughed, leaning against the doorframe with his foot crossed over his ankle and both his eyebrows lifted. “I did kind of yell your name on my way down the hall though.”  
  
Emma hadn’t heard him. The game was playing on her laptop in the background. Or it had been. Oh, shit, it must have been over.

She’d missed the entire game.

“Did we win?” Emma asked, nodding when Henry took a cautious step into the room. He was still wearing the same ancient Jones jersey, the letters on the back starting to peel off from overuse. “And why are you still wearing that? I promise Killian won’t mind if you switch out jerseys.”

Henry made a noise, scuffing his feet in the few inches of open space on the floor and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Emma stopped looking for the to-do-list.

“Did you meet the new guy?” Henry asked, sinking down next to her and tossing a puck in his hands.

“Hey, come on, someone bought that. And yeah, I did a couple of days ago. Did you?”  
  
“Nah, but I figured I would tonight.”   
  
“Tonight?”

“Mmmhm,” Henry hummed. He’d stopped actually throwing the puck, opting instead to twist it between his fingers and he still hadn’t actually looked Emma in the eye yet. She knew _deflecting_ when she saw it. She was very good at deflecting.

“Alright,” Emma said sharply, pulling the puck out of Henry’s hands and back on the stack it, maybe, belonged in. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Nope. Too quick to be the truth. Come on, you know you can talk about whatever with me, right? Are you worried about the house? Where they’ll send you?” She knew she’d hit the metaphorical nail on its head as soon as the question was out of her mouth, Henry’s eyes nearly falling out of his head as they widened. “It’s going to be fine,” Emma continued, hand falling on his shoulder and the peeling ‘J’ on his back.

It wasn’t a very convincing lie.

“I know that,” Henry said quickly.

She hadn’t expected that either.

“Wait, what?” Emma asked and she desperately needed to work on her _supportive, adult_ voice. She wished Mary Margaret was there. She’d come up with some sort of _belief_ speech. Or Killian. He was good at that.

God, she needed to get out of that office.

“It’s totally going to be fine,” Henry said, staring at Emma like he couldn’t imagine she’d suggest anything else. “At least right now.”  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?”   
  
Henry scrunched his nose, lips ticking down in frustration and Emma ignored her ringing phone. It was probably Aurora demanding more updates on inventory. Emma was going to have a very serious conversation with Aurora about micro-managing.

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to,” Henry said softly, rushing over the words like they were part of the secret.

And the terror that had shot down Emma’s spine at the prospect of a missing to-do-list was nothing compared to what she felt then – stomach clenching and pulse racing and her palms were bordering on disgusting, clammy and sweaty and a physical representation of the nerves that had been weighing her down all day.

“What if I guess?” she asked.

Henry’s eyes widened again and he couldn’t quite get one eyebrow up, just waggling both of them at Emma. “Can you do that?”

“It’s your news, kid. You tell me. I don’t want to make you tell me if you don’t want to, but I’d like to help if I can.”  
  
“It’s not bad, but it does have to do with the house.”   
  
“Then I’m confused.”   
  
“Guess.”

Emma made face. Her desk phone started ringing. “About the house though?” she asked and Henry nodded. “Did they tell you where you’re going?” Another nod. “Are you...ok with where you’re going?” A third nod, this one a bit more enthusiastic than the first two. Emma narrowed her eyes, lips twisted in thought. This wasn’t making any sense.

“Alright,” she continued slowly, tapping her fingers on the back of her palm. “So if you know where you’re going and you're happy about it, then what’s the problem? Why won’t you wear a different jersey?”  
  
“What does my jersey have to do with it?”   
  
“I’ve been there before, kid and I get it. I do. You want things that are _yours_ and comfortable and familiar.” Emma ducked her head into Henry’s eyeline when he started staring at his shoes. “Am I right?”   
  
“Whatever.”   
  
“I’m totally right.”   
  
He grumbled under his breath, twisting his hands together and Emma did her best to be patient. “I’m not leaving New York,” Henry muttered.

“What?”

Henry nodded again and eventually people were going to stop using that particular phrase in front of Emma. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m...uh, well, you didn’t guess.”  
  
“I’m never going to guess, kid, come on just tell me. This seems like a good thing, right?”   
  
“The best.”   
  
“So…”   
  
“They’re going to adopt me.”   
  
Emma nearly jumped, it kind of felt like she leapt back up, eyes a bit wild and smile threatening to take over her entire face. And any thought of nerves or terror were gone, replaced with something that felt like fire and positivity and maybe this is what Mary Margaret just felt like all the time.

“Who?” Emma asked, chest heaving just a bit as she tried to catch her breath. Henry looked a little shellshocked.

“That’s what I’m not supposed to say.” He hissed in his breath and he looked like every stereotypical twelve-year-old with a secret in the history of the entire world. “I kind of want to tell you though.”  
  
Emma had felt every single human emotion in the last twenty-four hours – she was positive. It was exhausting.

“Tell you what,” she said, crouching back down in front of Henry. “Reese’s and I have a code. We pinky swear when we want to promise something to each other. And neither one of us can break it, no matter what. You tell me and we pinky swear and I won’t tell another person in the whole entire world until we both know we can. Deal?”  
  
Henry considered that for a few moments, smile inching across his face as he nodded. “Even Killian?”

“If you don’t want me to, then no, I won’t. Pinky swear is serious.”  
  
“It’s not that I don’t want you to,” Henry sighed. “It’s just Robin said….”

Oh.

Oh.

“Robin said?” Emma repeated, nearly crashing back on her feet when she sat back down. Henry looked stricken.

And it all clicked suddenly in the middle of a mountain of merch – the Mills-Locksley family was about to get a little bit bigger. If the paperwork went through. The paperwork would absolutely go through.

No wonder Regina had gotten those tickets – outside the team suite – and Henry kept spending all that time with Roland and Emma dimly remembered Killian mentioning something about how much All-Stars branded merch Robin had brought home.

It was for Henry.

They were going to adopt Henry.

“You didn’t really guess,” Henry murmured and Emma shook her head quickly.

“Kind of,” she reasoned. “You didn’t really tell me at least. No pinky promise broken.”  
  
“We didn’t actually pinky promise.”

She held out her finger, shaking her hand a bit when Henry stared at and something in the very middle of Emma seemed to shift when he hooked his pinky around hers. Maybe she wouldn’t yell at Aurora anymore.

Maybe Garden of Dreams night was worth it.

“What are you worried about, then?” Emma asked softly. “And don’t just groan at me. We’ve already conquered secret number one.”  
  
Henry laughed, but there was a tinge of sadness in it that shouldn’t exist in a twelve-year-old. He ran a hand through his hair and Emma bit her lip. “I just...don’t want to get my hopes up.”   
  
“The paperwork will go through,” Emma promised. “Robin’s a professional hockey player and Regina must make an absolutely ridiculous amount of money. You see those pant-suits she wears? Those cost a fortune.” The laugh wasn’t quite as sad anymore, but Henry didn’t look entirely convinced. “Unless it’s not the paperwork,” Emma ventured.

“It’s not.”  
  
“Then what is it? Why the comfortable jersey?”

“What if they change their minds?” Henry whispered.

Emma squeezed her eyes closed so she didn’t do something ridiculous like cry in the middle of her merch-covered office. That probably just would have freaked Henry out even more. And it all hit a little too close to home.

_What if they change their minds? What if they regret it? What if I’m not enough?_

“They won’t,” Emma said immediately.

“You don’t know that. It happened to you. You told me it did.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, silently cursing herself for not being better prepared for this moment. “That’s true. But that doesn’t mean it’ll automatically be the same for you. Do you want to go live with the Locksleys?”  
  
“Yeah, of course.”   
  
“Then that’s all that matters. They’re not going to change their minds, kid. You’re totally Rol’s hero. He’ll fight for his brother.”   
  
Henry gasped softly at the word – which, of course, was why Emma had used it. “You think?” he asked and it was a very big question.

“I know.”  
  
“I’m going to get my own room,” Henry said, voice picking up with every word. Now that the secret was out there was, apparently, no end to his excitement. “And I can go to the all the games and maybe even some stuff on the road and…”   
  
“And what?”   
  
“Be part of the team.”   
  
Emma needed to get out of this office. It was all a little _too_ on point. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Henry was too busy hugging her.

And she hugged right back, still doing her best not to cry in the middle of her office.

“And we totally won,” Henry added, talking into her shoulder. “The new guy scored.”

Emma talked to the new guy again later that night – August Booth, a trade-deadline acquisition from the Sharks who appeared to hate the Kings more than anyone else on the Rangers roster simply by default and San Jose’s proximity to Los Angeles.

“He can stay,” Killian muttered in her ear when she asked about him, arm wrapped around her waist as Emma tried to keep her slightly precarious balance on his kitchen counter. “And you’re not supposed to be up there.”

“He can stay because he hates LA an appropriate amount or because he scored the game-winner?”  
  
“In the second period.”   
  
“Still counts on the score sheet.”

“So do those assists.”  
  
Emma scoffed, kicking out her feet against the cabinets underneath Killian’s counter. He rolled his eyes as soon as her socked heel hit up against the wood. “Why Cap,” she said slowly, tugging herself to the edge of the granite she was perched on, “are you fishing for compliments?”   
  
“Would I do that?” Killian asked, glancing over his shoulder at her and Emma pushed back so she wouldn’t inadvertently fall on the floor.

She couldn’t think straight when he looked at her like that.

And margarita night was not going to help. Or, rather, margarita middle of the night. It was nearly two in the morning.

“That’s certainly what it sounds like,” Emma said, grabbing the plastic box of strawberries next to her when Killian pointed around her. “You know I think the alcohol makes you compliment-hungry.”

“We haven’t had any alcohol yet.”  
  
“Ah, then I guess you must be just fishing for compliments, huh?”   
  
Killian shrugged, lips brushing over Emma’s cheek and he squeezed his fingers on the curve of her hip. “Maybe just from you.”   
  
They hadn’t actually made the margaritas yet – Emma’s slightly stunned expression the topic of conversation as soon as they’d landed in front of Killian’s door to find the Amazon boxes sitting in front of them.

He’d ordered them in Dallas.

Of course he had.

“Have you actually talked to the new guy, yet?” Emma asked. There wasn’t enough room on the counter for her and recently-purchased appliances and Killian was crouched in the corner of his kitchen with the blender on the floor.

It made her heart stutter in her chest.

“I mean, he’s on the team, Swan,” Killian said reasonably, not even bothering to look away from the blender. “He’s not that bad. And that was a good shot today, even if it was a game-winner in the second, so it shouldn’t really count. Maybe he’ll loosen up eventually. He looked a little shellshocked at the restaurant.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of a lot to take in. All this team just kind of hitting you in the face.”   
  
“And,” Killian added, glancing over his shoulder to smirk at her. “This means you’re not the new one anymore. Also we’ve got to call him by his real name because _new guy_ is getting confusing when that’s what we called Lance.”

She laughed softly and slid off the counter, padding across the floor to run her hands through the small tuft of hair at the top of his neck. “That’s distracting,” Killian mumbled, leaning his head back until he was resting on the curve of her palm.   
  
“What could possibly be distracting? You’re not exactly preparing a gourmet meal over here.”   
  
“Rude.”   
  
“You’re on the floor.”   
  
“Because you were on the counter. That’s just being a gentleman.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, appreciating the small shiver that almost visibly moved down Killian’s spine when she traced her fingers down his skin. They were a two-person walking billboard for the New York Rangers at this point – t-shirts and gym shorts that didn’t really fit or, technically, belong to Emma, just picked out of Killian’s closet as soon as she’d walked through the door and he plugged the blender in on the floor.

“Hey,” Emma mumbled, moving before she even realized she’d bent her knees. “Have you talked to Robin recently?”  
  
The blender stopped making noise – a mix of strawberries and tequila and ice sitting untouched as soon as Killian turned towards her. Emma fell backwards, legs stretched out across linoleum in the middle of the kitchen floor as Killian lifted one eyebrow at her.

“You know Henry’s trying to do that now,” she added.

“Do what?”  
  
“Your eyebrow thing.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware I had an eyebrow thing.” Emma nodded, finger tracing over the arch before pushing back into his hair. Killian made some sort of impossible noise in the back of his throat, leaning forward until his forehead rested on hers.

And then she nearly lost track of time completely.

Killian shifted until he was back next to her, Emma’s legs somehow draped perpendicular over his with his arm draped over her shoulders. It wasn’t comfortable. She wasn’t comfortable – a pretzel of a person, twisted around so her lips could find Killian’s.

He pulled them towards the side of the kitchen, desperately trying to find something to lean against so they had a bit of leverage and, well, that was just practical. Emma didn’t argue that. She just kept kissing him and thinking about how he’d ordered a blender in Dallas and she wasn’t wearing any of her own clothes.

Everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time and that didn’t make any sense at all, but Emma still wasn’t particularly comfortable and she couldn’t bring herself to move. It felt different than it had before, shifting into something that might have been exactly what she’d been waiting for – enough.

It felt like enough.

Killian’s hand found skin, fingers dancing just underneath the edge of the far-too-large t-shirt she was wearing and Emma’s back arched out of instinct, fingers tightening in his hair. He hissed at that or maybe at the sudden contact of her hips, body turned around until she was somewhere in the realm of straddling.

“We’re going to knock over the margaritas,” Emma mumbled.

“I honestly couldn’t care less about the margaritas,” Killian countered, thumb tracing out a half circle on her waist.

“These were your idea!”  
  
“Which gives me free reign over the idea and I don’t care about it much anymore. I’m far more interested in kissing you.”   
  
“In the middle of the kitchen?”   
  
“Unless you’re suggesting something else.”   
  
He pulled back slightly, eyebrows doing something impossible and Emma did her best to sigh dramatically. It didn’t really work.

She was far too charmed for her own good.

“What were you talking about before?” Killian asked. God, she was sitting on top of him. This wasn’t how she planned this happening.

There should have been more margaritas. Or maybe just more kissing.

Killian tapped on the collar of her shirt and waited. She should have planned on that. He was always letting her catch up.

“I love you,” Emma said, words falling out of her mouth easily and quickly and without her explicit permission.

He blinked once – head tilted slightly at the sentiment. Good. Keep him on his toes. Or something. God, no, the opposite of that. She’d lost control of this night. She was just going to start drinking margaritas straight out of the blender.

“I love you too, Swan,” Killian said slowly, rubbing both of his hands across her shoulders. “You going to tell me what’s really going on, now?”  
  
“Why are you under some impression that something’s going on?”   
  
“Well, you’ve already asked if I talked to two different people on my team today, including one I split a cab with earlier tonight. So, yeah, that seems like something is going on.”   
  
Emma groaned, muttering words under her breath and Killian smiled. “Mind reader,” she accused.

“Open book. Come on, love, the truth.”  
  
“I wasn’t at the Garden all day.”   
  
“Good. You spend way too much time in your office as is.”   
  
“A rather pointed opinion,” she mumbled and he kissed the top of her forehead.

“An accurate one. Did you even see any of the game?”  
  
“Some of it. Or listened to it.”   
  
“I rest my case.”

“Are we doing legal jokes now? Because I’m totally out if we’re doing that.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, but the smirk got a bit more pronounced and she hadn’t actually gotten off him yet. His hands found her hips again and Emma’s breath caught when he moved, canting up slightly. “That’s playing dirty,” she hissed.

“Talk to me then.”  
  
“Weren’t you the one suggesting kissing? Maybe I’m more interested in kissing.”   
  
It wasn’t a complete lie. It might have been the most honest thing she’d said all day.

“As much as I appreciate the interest in kissing, I’m also fairly interested in finding out what’s on your mind.”  
  
Emma sighed slightly and shifted and both of them groaned at the contact, lips bit tightly between teeth and hands gripping just a bit harder on hips and hair respectively. “Maybe we get off the floor,” Emma suggested.

“No, no,” Killian countered, nearly gritting his teeth as he spoke. “Talk. We can talk, right?”  
  
“That’s what we’re doing.”   
  
“About what you’re thinking.”   
  
“You have several days?”   
  
“At least the rest of the night.”

Emma groaned, tapping her fingers against his neck thoughtfully and, suddenly, she couldn’t seem to stop talking.   
  
“I went with Reese’s to look at apartments and she was mad and I thought she was mad about me moving out, but she was mom-disappointed that I didn’t say anything to you before I started looking at apartments and I can’t remember what the realtor’s name was, but we looked at a bunch of places and I signed a month-to-month on a one-bedroom a couple of blocks from here.”   
  
Killian blinked once, but his gaze didn’t actually leave Emma’s. He was still smiling at her. He looked a little stunned, but he was still smiling.

“Did you just say Mary Margaret was mom-disappointed in you?” Killian asked.

“Uh, yeah, you know like I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”  
  
“Why?”

“Why was she mom-disappointed in me?” Killian nodded, fingers tangling in the end of Emma’s hair. “Because I didn’t tell you I was thinking of moving out.”  
  
“Did she think you’d just move in here?”

Emma couldn’t actually stumble backwards – still sitting on Killian’s legs, not to mention the anchors masquerading as hands still gripping either side of her hips – but she made an effort anyway, pulling back and nearly snapping her neck in the process.

“Not that I’m not suggesting you couldn’t or wouldn’t or anything and, you know, feel free to cut me off at some point, Swan,” Killian mumbled, a slightly stricken look on his face.

“And miss out on Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, blush like that?”  
  
“I don’t blush.”   
  
“You are, currently. Matches the red on your letters.”

He sighed dramatically, fingers tapping out a slightly impatient rhythm against her skin and Emma gave herself a moment to marvel at how easily he’d hit the center of her issue.

“I know I’ve got the toothbrush and we’re...us, but I kind of need to do this?” She hadn’t meant to ask it as a question, but the look on his face had given her pause and he’d stuttered over the explanation of her moving in, like he’d spent time thinking about Emma moving in.

And maybe she’d been thinking about it as soon as Mary Margaret planted the thought in her head that afternoon.

“I just...I know I could or maybe would, but, I can’t stay on Reese’s couch forever or play her kid forever and I think I’ve done permanent damage to my spine at this point and I just want to prove to myself I can and...God, feel free to cut me off at any point.”  
  
He kissed her and Emma felt his smile when his lips hit hers, settling whatever wave of emotion was moving around in the pit of her stomach.

“I understand, Swan,” Killian said.

She should have known. Insert cliché about _trust_ here. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve always been on my own,” Emma whispered, aware she didn’t need to give an explanation. She wanted to. It was strange and exciting and Killian was nothing short of a rapt audience. “And it was ok, but it was mostly out of necessity. I did it because I had to and there wasn’t anyone else around.”

“And now everyone is around,” Killian added. “Mary Margaret and David and an entire NHL team.”  
  
“You.”   
  
“Yeah, me.”   
  
“That’s a good thing.”   
  
“If it means you get to be around me too, then I agree, Swan.”   
  
She couldn’t quite roll her eyes at the same time she was trying to breathe like a normal human being and Killian’s hands hadn’t actually stopped moving in days, at least. “I’ve always just kind of existed in those places, you know what I mean? That’s why Reese’s was mom-disappointed because I didn’t even think to talk about this with anyone. I just...did it. I want to be here. And I want..something here.”   
  
“That’s not a bad thing, Swan.”   
  
“No?”   
  
Killian shook his head. “No. Why do you think I moved up here?”   
  
“To have a lot of square feet for your impressive throw pillow collection?” Killian glared at her and Emma kissed his cheek quickly. “I have no idea.”   
  
“To have something that was mine. Explicitly. To put down some of those metaphorical roots they claim are so important.”   
  
“Who are these _they_ you’re talking about?”   
  
“You know,” Killian said, pulling one hand away to wave it through the open air. “They. The famous ones.”   
  
“And they’re telling us to put down roots?   
  
“Apparently.”

Emma’s pulse thudded painfully in her wrist and her bottom lip was a lost cause, twisted up in her teeth so she wouldn’t start attack-kissing him on the kitchen floor again. They should probably move before the kissing started again.

She was very anxious for the kissing to start again.  
  
“Page Six would have the world believe we’re already planning some sort of July honeymoon,” Emma muttered and she was proud her voice didn’t actually shake.

Killian chuckled softly, the sound of it making his chest shake slightly. Emma burrowed her forehead against his neck. “Ah, well, that at least means we’ve won a Cup. Good to know Page Six is a fan.”

“Can you be serious for like two seconds? We didn’t actually talk about it.”  
  
“Do we need to?”   
  
Emma hummed and the answer was almost immediate. “No,” she said. “Not really.”

“You said a couple of blocks away,” Killian said.   
  
“Yeah, like right smack in between here and Reese’s. 76th and West End.”   
  
“That’s close to the park.”   
  
“Do you just have a map just pre-programmed into your head?”   
  
“I promise, it’s not that impressive.”   
  
Emma shook her head. “And here I thought you were fishing for compliments.”

Killian brushed her hair off her shoulders, hand lingering on her neck before tracing down her arm until his thumb looped through her laces and Emma was positive they’d never actually move off the kitchen floor.

She would have been content to sit there for the rest of the night.

“I don’t care about Page Six, Swan,” Killian said. “Or Mary Margaret’s somewhat fascinating mom-disappointment. David could be dad-disappointed too if he wanted to be. We’re going to do whatever we want, however we want to. And we’re going to put down some of those theoretical roots.”  
  
It was, easily, the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. And somewhere in the back of Emma’s mind, that orphan who rose up and practically cried _I’m still here_ when Henry stepped into her office, was silenced all over again.

Maybe this time for good.

Because she was putting down roots and Killian Jones kept looking her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.

She didn’t care about the zeroes.

This was enough.

For both of them.

They never actually drank the margaritas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I realize that this probably didn't go the way a lot of you expected it to. But before being worried about Emma and Killian or just Emma in general, let me just say real quick - Emma came to New York thinking she was just going to bounce through and the only reason she got that job was because her friends pulled some strings. Now she's got a whole team rallying together to fix her charity game and Killian's giving up literal millions for her and now ~she~ wants to stay in New York too. We're still in relationship team mode and romance and all of that, but Emma, who bounced around the country her whole life, just wanted something that was hers. 
> 
> Rant over. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for your response to this story and @laurenorder for fixing it. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	35. Chapter 35

“Is there a reason you’re lurking in the corner?”

Killian’s head snapped up, smiling out of instinct as soon as he heard the question and the tone of her voice and Emma was staring at him incredulously, arms crossed over the front of yet another team-branded t-shirt.

“You’ve started quite a collection of my jerseys, Swan,” he pointed out, nodding towards the ‘C’ on her shoulder.

“This is a t-shirt.”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and dropped onto the edge of the stool next to him, kicking her feet out slightly. “Come on, seriously. What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing’s the matter,” he said and it wasn’t a complete lie.

It wasn’t.

It was, just, as they say, all happening. And he was somewhere in the vicinity of excited and nervous and anxious and something that felt a bit like terrified – which was all kind of weird because Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been terrified of anything that had to do with hockey.

There’d never been quite so much riding on hockey either.

Emma’s lips twisted slightly and he could nearly hear the thought appearing in the back of her head, the flash of understanding in her eyes making him fall in love with her just a little bit more. Maybe terrified wasn’t the right word.

Maybe determined was better.

“Did you send out season-ticket blasts?” Killian asked, already certain of the answer. He was certain she’d sent out the e-mails and the announcements and the Facebook video celebrating the Rangers’ clinched Wild Card spot as soon as the buzzer went off.

“Are you kidding me?” Emma countered. She kicked at his leg again and he groaned dramatically when the toe of her heel connected with his ankle.

“Jeez, careful, Swan.”  
  
“Come on, you’re honestly asking me about work? We’re supposed to be celebrating. Easy playoff path and all that stuff.”  
  
“Who’s saying easy?”  
  
“Every newspaper in the greater New York City area and Yahoo Sports.”  
  
“You’re reading Yahoo Sports?”  
  
“Aren’t you?”  
  
Killian shrugged and Emma scoffed, tracing her finger across the bar. Of course he was. He didn’t normally – ever since Liam had gotten hurt, he’d avoided media reports like some sort of athletic-themed plague – but in the last few weeks, since they’d been just on the cusp of clinching, he’d found himself actually searching out stories and links and playoff projections. It was like he was actually trying to torture himself.

There was no easy path.

This was the playoffs and the Cup and everything from here on out was a very distinct type of challenge, but he was that mix of emotions and determination and he kept reading everything he could get his hands on.

The coffee table in his apartment was like a shrine to the National Hockey League at this point, a mess of sports sections and copies of _Sports Illustrated_ he’d forced Ruby to get for him.

“You know,” Emma said pointedly, nodding in Eric’s direction when he left a plate of onion rings in front of her. “You left your _Daily News_ sports section sitting next to the bed this morning.”  
  
Her bed. In her apartment. Several blocks away from his.

Not that it was a problem – it wasn’t. Really.

He wasn’t a complete ass. Killian really did understand why she’d gotten her own apartment and he hadn’t _really_ been considering some sort of joint living arrangement until Emma had explained that there wouldn’t be one and Mary Margaret’s mom-disappointment probably extended to him as well.

The last month had been a back-and-forth schedule of nights in his apartment and her apartment and wrapping up the regular season and it was no wonder he’d left the sports section of a New York daily next to her bed because he could hardly remember where he had to be later that night, let alone putting a few sheets of newspaper back in his bag.

“If you were trying to make sure I didn’t find that story about what happens if you don’t win a Cup, you weren’t doing a very good job,” Emma continued, whispering the last few words so as not to draw the ire of an entire hockey team.

That got him to smile again.

“It was more just forgetting I’d left it there than any sort of overly dramatic attempt to get you to notice me,” Killian laughed.

His thumb traced over the bend of her knee and it wasn’t lost on him that they were back where they’d started – tucked into the corner of the restaurant with a very loud, very excited, team a few feet away and he didn’t care about any of them.

He kept staring at her.

It was the same spot as the set-up, but it couldn’t have been more different and he would have trekked back and forth between her apartment and his for the rest of the foreseeable future to ensure that Emma Swan kept looking at him like he was the best goddamn player in the league.

“That kind of seems like a problem,” Emma said. “Can’t score goals if you’re all distracted like that.”  
  
“Not distracted. Focused.”  
  
“On forgetting newspapers or what the newspapers are saying?” Killian’s thumb stopped moving and he gripped her knee a bit tighter. “I totally read the story,” Emma continued, tilting her head to the side as she ripped an onion ring apart.

He’d lost track of the number of times he’d read the story or the number of times Regina had told him about the story and, eventually, someone was going to just let him play hockey, right? He hoped so.

That might make this easier.

Emma leaned forward, balancing precariously on the edge of the stool and Killian’s hand moved to her waist out of instinct. “Jeez, Jones, relax,” she mumbled.

“I’m just making sure Eric doesn’t have to deal with cleaning up after you when you kill yourself from falling off this stool.”

She groaned, but she didn’t actually move his hand and the smile was still tugging on the edge of her lips when she sat up straight. The story was in her hand.  
  
“I think I’ve read it like a dozen times today,” Emma mumbled. “You’d look good on TV.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what Regina keeps saying.”  
  
“Doesn’t surprise me at all.”  
  
It didn’t surprise him either – Regina’s promises that this was _something to consider_ and, well, he’d already told the Av’s no and there was no guarantee any other team would sign him if the Rangers didn’t and they might have a playoff spot, but Wild Card wasn’t easy and...the list went on and on.

He could probably recite it verbatim at this point.

“The story seems to think you’d make several zeroes worth of money for your very attractive face,” Emma said and he didn’t think he imagined the way she leaned toward him, knee brushing against his and hand landing on the top of his pants.

Killian quirked one eyebrow and a slightly embarrassed Emma – the one who blushed just a bit when she’d been caught calling her boyfriend attractive – was something he was far more interested in than he realized.

“You telling me you think the TV people only want me for my face, Swan?” Killian asked, propping his elbow up on the bar and resting his chin on his hand.

She rolled her eyes. “I said no such thing.”  
  
“You did. You just said the story claimed I’d get several zeroes for my very attractive face.”  
  
“Slip of the tongue.” He widened his eyes and he was certain Emma’s face was nearly as red as the highlights in Ruby’s hair. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “Shut up.”  
  
“Your words, not mine.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment, lips pressed together tightly and Killian knew she was thinking exactly what he was – it was a good offer, it was a lot of zeroes, it kept him in New York no matter what happened this season.

His attractive face would, probably, look pretty damn good on TV.

“You don’t know that someone else wouldn’t offer after the run,” Emma whispered. “And this is the only time I’ve seen this story.”  
  
“It’s definitely true,” Killian said. “Gina thinks it’s some kind of fantastic back-up plan.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
He shrugged. It was. It made as much sense as Emma getting her own apartment.

Be prepared. Or something.

He didn’t want that. He wanted to win a fucking Stanley Cup. He wanted this to work. He wanted Emma to move into his apartment more than he’d been willing to admit to himself in the last month.

Emma narrowed her eyes and he’d never actually answered her question. He didn’t really get the chance – attacked, as per usual, by a seven-year-old whirlwind, decked out in head-to-toe blue and one of the fansite shirts that claimed the Rangers weren’t interested in _easy victories_.

“Hook,” Roland shouted, arms already thrust into the air so he could get pulled up onto the edge of the bar. “Oh, are those onion rings?”  
  
Emma laughed softly and for half a moment Killian forgot about the story and the playoff run and anything that wasn’t that sound and the look on her face when she tugged Roland towards her. “Come on, Rol,” she huffed and at least the kid tried to help her, pushing up on the balls of his feet before climbing up onto the bar himself. Eric only looked vaguely scandalized.

“Thanks,” Roland mumbled, mouth half stuffed with onion rings already.

“Slow down,” Killian said, tugging Roland’s hand away from the plate. He’d already eaten half the onion rings. “You’re going to choke and then Gina will kill me.”  
  
Roland shook his head and for a recently-turned-seven-year-old, he was deceptively strong, yanking his arm out of Killian’s grip. “Nah, she’s busy.”  
  
“Is she on the phone again?”

If Regina was talking to people without telling him again, Killian was going to break something. Or maybe throw something. Or maybe get two minutes on purpose in the season finale the next night. Probably not the last one.

Arthur would make him skate sprints if he did that.

“Not about TV,” Roland said seriously and Killian was momentarily stunned at that. Emma tried to turn her laughter into a cough.

“What about then?”  
  
“Henry.”  
  
“Henry?” Killian repeated and Emma’s eyes got impossibly wide. He glanced up, meeting her slightly stunned stare with one of his own.

Henry was, in fact, sitting a few feet away, legs stretched out at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant with his arms crossed over his chest and he looked every inch like he belonged there, wearing his own playoff shirt and a smile that Killian was certain would never actually leave his face.

“What’s going on?” Killian asked, not sure if he was talking to Roland or Emma.

She bit her lip and he resisted the urge to mutter _open book_ at her when Roland started babbling excitedly while trying to devour seven onion rings at once.

“He’s going to move in while you guys are in Montreal and Gina’s trying to make sure the house gives him all his stuff and he doesn’t have any stuff, not really, that’s what he told me, but Gina keeps calling and she’s using that serious voice she used when she talked about you going away, Hook and I asked Henry if that made him my brother and…”

Emma breath audibly caught and she was blinking quickly enough that Killian’s hand found hers almost immediately.

“Wait,” Killian interrupted and Roland froze with an onion ring halfway to his mouth. “Brother? What are you talking about?”  
  
Roland’s eyes got as large as Emma’s and his gaze darted between the two of them. He dropped the onion ring on his pants.

“Robin didn’t tell you,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question.

“He told you?” Killian asked.

“No, no, Henry did.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“A couple weeks ago.” Killian’s mouth hung open and Emma’s lips had all but disappeared behind her teeth, something in her expression that looked like an apology. “But it’s not final yet. They were still in paperwork then. It probably isn’t still. That stuff takes some time.”  
  
“Paperwork?”  
  
“I’d imagine there’s a lot of it if you’re going to adopt a kid.”

He’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t realized. And, somewhere in the back of his mind it made sense – everything about this whole night made sense – but it all hit a bit too close to home and no one had told him anything.

Old habits coming back to haunt or taunt or just be particularly annoying at the start of some kind of career-defining playoff run.

Killian ran his hand through his hair, desperate not to meet Emma’s worried gaze and this was what he’d been trying to avoid in New York in the first place. This was why he hadn’t wanted to come to that party all those months ago, the family that wasn’t _quite_ his family and everything moving and changing and evolving around him.

And he just sat still.

“I thought Robin would have told you,” Emma muttered, squeezing his hand tightly. Oh, that was different.

Emma.

Emma was there now and she hadn’t let go of his hand and, well, Page Six wasn’t wrong. There was a reason he was staying in New York. And considering TV.

“Nah,” Killian shook his head. “You’re right though, probably didn’t want to jinx it or something.”

Roland looked distraught. “Dad didn’t tell you, Hook?”  
  
“It’s ok, Rol,” he promised, trying to take a deep breath. He smiled at the kid and tugged on the bottom of his t-shirt. “This is a good thing.”  
  
Roland beamed. “I’ve never had a brother before. And neither has dad and Gina doesn’t have any either and...”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And you and Uncle Liam are brothers.”  
  
Killian sat up a bit straighter, Emma’s hand gripping just a bit tighter than it had to. “That’s true.”  
  
“And you guys played hockey together and he taught you how to check somebody and, well, maybe Henry could teach me how to check somebody.”  
  
He hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this kind of conversation.

This was Robin territory. This was _actual_ dad territory, not quasi-parental figure who let you eat more onion rings than you were supposed to as dictated by the Food and Drug Administration.

This wasn’t what Killian signed up for.

Roland, however, didn’t seem to care – eyes bright and expectations written on his face clear as day and Emma still hadn’t let go of Killian’s hand.

“You’d probably be the one doing most of the teaching in this case,” Killian said, eyes flashing towards Emma. “Henry doesn’t really even know how to skate.”  
  
“What?” Roland shouted and he moved so quickly, he nearly flew off the edge of the bar. Emma only managed to save the plate of onion rings from crashing onto the floor. “We’ve got to fix that, Hook! How come he doesn’t know how to skate?”  
  
It was if the idea of not knowing how to skate was the most scandalous thing that had ever crossed Roland’s mind. It might have been.

“Not everyone grows up with an entire hockey team around them, Rol,” Emma explained. “Some of us just kind of fall into it.”  
  
Killian might have squeezed _her_ hand at that point. God, the playoffs needed to start. He needed some kind of consistency.

“Can we do that, Hook?” Roland continued, undeterred by Killian’s soft exclamation when he tried to jump back towards the floor again.

“Stop, you’re going to kill yourself,” he muttered, pushing a grumbling Roland back into the center of the bar. “And you’ll have to ask your dad and Gina. Maybe after the playoffs are over.”  
  
“After you guys win a Cup?”  
  
Killian grimaced, but didn’t say anything, something about ancient superstitions sitting on the tip of his tongue. It didn’t matter – Will yelled it from the other side of the restaurant.

“You know the rules, Rol,” Will shouted, arm slung over Belle’s shoulders. She almost looked embarrassed. “We don’t talk about that.”  
  
“But you guys are going to win,” Roland argued. He tried to push himself up again and Emma laughed when she pulled the onion ring plate completely out of harm’s way, eating the last one for good measure.

“Well, of course we are,” Killian said evenly. Roland sat back down. “But we just don’t talk about it. Bad form.”  
  
“Is there form for that kind of stuff?” Emma asked. “Or just ancient athletic superstitions?”  
  
“Bit of column A, bit of column B?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“And Henry said he’s going to wear your jersey during the run too, Hook,” Roland continued, seemingly undeterred by whatever Scarlet was still complaining about from the other side of the restaurant. “And once he gets his stuff in his room, Gina said we could get sticks and put them on the wall.”  
  
The whole restaurant froze – or at least the front line. Scarlet, at least, stopped yelling.

“Well, there went the secret,” Emma muttered. Killian shook his head.

Robin and Regina sprinted towards the corner of the bar, matching looks of dread on their faces when they skidded to a stop in front of Killian.

“It’s fine,” Killian promised. “Some would go so far as to say good.”  
  
Regina didn’t look convinced. She almost looked mad when she noticed the empty plate a few feet away from Roland. Robin looked a little nervous.

“You think?” he muttered, hands stuffed into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

Killian glanced at Emma again – and there was some kind of deeper meaning to _that,_ that also might have been based in not-quite-reasonable superstitions, some kind of good luck charm or the force behind everything – and she barely moved her head when she nodded, smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

“I know,” Killian said. “When did you guys decide to do this though?”  
  
“You really want to know?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
Robin made some kind of noise in the back of his throat and Killian knew the answer to that question – because he’d been busy lying to everyone about going to Colorado and running away from every ounce of _family_ that had ever existed in New York and turning down a considerable number of zeroes.

“Yeah, well,” Killian started, “that’s different now.”  
  
“Yeah?”

Emma was blushing again. It was lighter that time, just spots of red on her cheeks and eyes trained on Roland and Regina and Mary Margaret had showed up at some point, probably responding to some kind of _Emma sense_ that just knew when there was something potentially emotional about to happen.

“I guess so,” Robin said, answering his own question as soon as he looked at Killian.

“If you’re going to get sentimental on me Locksley, I swear, I’m going to leave.”  
  
“Nah, that’s a waste of time when you’re there already.”  
  
Killian scoffed and there was a small crowd around them now – Scarlet and Belle and Henry had his own stool and even David had moved as well, hand landing protectively on Emma’s shoulder like it was a flashing neon sign regarding sentimentality.

“And since the break,” Regina said suddenly, not even turning to look at Killian when she spoke. “No one wanted to tell you because you were being stupid.”

“Always so good with words, Gina,” Killian mumbled.

“Stop feeding my kid an obscene amount of onion rings and I’ll be nicer to you.”  
  
“Ah, but now you’ve just set yourself up for even more disappointment, because you’ve got two kids and that’s just more onion rings to spread around.”  
  
She did turn around at that, eyes narrowed and glare plastered on her face and Killian smiled in response. “I wish you’d left when the Av’s offered,” she said, but the words didn’t quite ring true.

“That’s just rude.”  
  
“Control the onion rings then.”

“Big job.”  
  
Regina groaned, but there was _almost_ a smile on her face and Killian felt something settle in the very center of him – or maybe resettle. Like he’d found something all over again.

Emma moved off the stool, squeezing Henry’s arm once, before she took a few steps towards him, fingers finding the back of his hair and Killian’s hand was around her waist before he could stop himself, pulling her closer to his side.

Maybe he’d consider TV. Maybe it was good to be prepared.

Maybe he was hedging his bets to keep Emma pulled up against his side.

“Will you two stop arguing,” Ariel hissed, cutting into the conversation with practiced ease. Eric sputtered when she moved behind the bar, grabbing the remote out of his hand and Killian was a mix of impressed and vaguely intimidated. “Some of us are trying to see how this all shapes up.”  
  
She changed the channel and the restaurant went silent again – a dozen pairs of eyes trained on the TV screen and the Penguins game and she’d timed it almost perfectly because there were only a few minutes left.

“That was impressive, Red,” Killian said and she just stuck her tongue out at him.

“Shut up and watch the game. And then show up on time for PT tomorrow.”  
  
“Are you not showing up on time for PT?” Emma asked sharply, pushing on his shoulder like that would get him to follow the final-day-of-the-regular-season-schedule he was all too aware she had.

“She’s making that up, Swan,” Killian answered. “I was no less than two minutes late for PT yesterday and I made a fist, at least, a dozen times. She’s just greedy.”  
  
“I am doing my job,” Ariel argued, still staring at the TV. The whole group groaned when some third-liner scored an empty-net goal for the Penguins. “Ah, there it is.”  
  
Emma slumped against his side and Killian, head resting on his shoulder and, Ariel was right. There it was.

The Pens won the President’s Trophy.

“God, I hate them all,” Will mumbled and Belle clicked her tongue in reproach as a line of gold and black skated to center ice and the obligatory post-game celebration.

“Why are we watching this, exactly?” Robin asked. “We knew they were going to clinch tonight.”  
  
“Well, to be fair, they could have done it tomorrow,” Killian said, trying not to actually sigh too loudly when they brought the trophy out onto the ice to the sounds of a crowd that had, just recently, won a Stanley Cup. “God, this is depressing.”  
  
“Which brings me back to my original question.”  
  
Ariel huffed loudly, rolling her eyes as if she couldn’t quite believe any of them were still talking. “Are you guys serious? This is motivation!”

“I don’t think we really need that,” Killian said.

“Wild. Card.”  
  
“Which seems like plenty of motivation to begin with.”

“Ugh.”  
  
“Did you just say the word _ugh_ out loud? That’s your argument right now?”  
  
“Show up to PT on time, Killian!”

He laughed softly, hand still lingering on Emma’s waist and she’d started tugging on the front of his jacket like it was an old habit she couldn't quite shake. “You’re going to drive her insane, you know.”  
  
“Nah, she’s used to it by now.”  
  
Ariel stuck her tongue out at him again, but Killian barely registered it, eyes flashing up to the screen when the crowd started to cheer again and a collective _ooooh_ moved across the restaurant.

“Oh, well, they’re totally fucked now,” Will said, immediately chastised by everyone over the age of twelve. “Right, right, sorry, we’re a family team.”  
  
“That’s bad luck,” Robin muttered and Killian was somewhere in the realm of almost hysterical at this point, head thrown back as soon as Soyer’s hands landed on the trophy.

“See, Red,” he said, nodding towards the TV as the entire Penguins roster passed the President’s Trophy down the line. Some of them kissed it. “We don’t need any motivation. Not when they’ve already broken the rules.”

She didn’t argue immediately – and that felt a bit like a step in the right direction. “I can’t believe they touched it.”

“Too confident.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?”  
  
“What a bunch of idiots,” Emma mumbled. “Look at them. They’re all posing with it like they’ve already won the Cup.”  
  
“This anti-Pittsburgh side of you is fun, Swan. I like it. Keep going.”  
  
Emma yanked on his zipper again and he fell forward dramatically, huffing out the air in his lungs like he’d been punched. “They’re not going to win again,” she said and Killian nearly forgot there was an entire hockey team standing behind them.

“Of course not.”

“Plus,” Will added, nearly pushing his hand in between Killian and Emma. “We’ve got to win so Cap doesn’t get screwed over by the entire franchise.”  
  
“The soul of tact, Scarlet.”

Will hummed in the back of his throat, grunting slightly when Robin hit against the back of his head. “What? I mean that’s true, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Emma said and it sounded a bit like a threat. Her hand was flat on Killian’s chest, eyes tracing across his face like she was waiting for the blow-up in the middle of the restaurant. It wasn’t going to happen.

“We should toast,” David said suddenly and, it appeared, a bit out of his own control as Mary Margaret pushed him a step closer to Emma again. “Um, I mean, well you guys did it at the start of the regular season, right? We should do it again. For symmetry.”  
  
“Nice save,” she muttered.

“That’s a good idea,” Robin agreed, nodding towards an expectant Eric behind the bar. He handed out glasses and alcohol and soda and cleared his throat when David didn’t immediately start talking. “Your move, Detective.”  
  
“Oh, oh, right,” he sputtered. “Well, there’s no sense in talking about how long we’ve all waited for a run like this or a team like this. Everything is there and not just because that’s what the reports say. Because you guys, and well, all of us, are certain of it. No extra motivation needed. To the postseason.”

“To the postseason.”

The alcohol burned the back of his throat and landed in the pit of his stomach with an almost audible _thump_ , but Emma hadn’t ever moved, head back on his shoulder and shot glass in her own hand and that very specific type of smile on her face.

That was more than enough motivation.

* * *

The first three games hadn’t been particularly easy.

He wouldn’t say that. This was the playoffs – nothing was easy. It was do or die and every sports cliché Mrs. Vankald could come up with was one-hundred percent true in situations like these.

There were no easy games, no easy shifts, every single hit hurt just a bit more and the bruises on his left hand were a testament to that.

It wasn’t easy. Hell, they’d nearly lost game three and Arthur’s whiteboard casualties were starting to get even more violent now, hitting them up against the boards and using them even after he’d cracked them, the lines tracing across them making it difficult to actually work out the plays he was trying to draw up.

The game’s hadn’t been perfect and Killian’s hand was black and blue and he hadn’t actually scored in the series, but he woke up with hair in his face and a smile on his lips and they could clinch that night.

He shifted slightly, breathing in slowly and maybe that had been a mistake because he breathed in more hair than he’d been entirely ready for and his whole body shook when he started coughing and Emma grumbled when she woke up.

“God, what are you doing?” she asked, voice scratchy from sleep and fingers splayed across his hip.

“Trying not to suffocate on your hair.”  
  
She scoffed and opened one eye, keeping the other squeezed shut and _that_ might have made it even more difficult to breathe. Or it might have been the team-branded she was wearing, oversized t-shirt and not much else, legs twisted up with his and there’d been no conversation about coming back to her apartment after another home win, just an expectant smile on her face when he slung his arm around her shoulders in the back corner of the restaurant.

“Did you know that the reason they call the Canadiens the Habs is because of Madison Square Garden?” Emma asked.

“What?”

She nodded. “Yup. Tex Rickard, who owned the Garden in 1920-something, said the ‘H’ on the jerseys stood for Habitants. He was probably an idiot, but Habitants, Habs, it stuck.”  
  
“And why was he an idiot exactly?”  
  
“It stood for hockey.”  
  
“Ah, well, obviously.”

Emma grinned, pushing her hair back behind her ear and she did something with her eyebrows – or at least tried. Killian was paying more attention to whatever it was her fingers were doing, tracing out a circle with her thumb and she laughed when his breath actually caught, shoulders rolling back into the mattress.

“You know,” she said slowly, hand still moving and he wouldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. “You can clinch tonight.”  
  
“A fact I’m very much aware of, Swan.”

“Step forward and all that.”

“Also true.”  
  
“The tabs will have a field day if you sweep.”

“When,” Killian said instinctively and he wasn’t certain when he’d started being so _positive_ , probably somewhere around the time the tips of Emma’s fingers found their way underneath the edge of his boxers.

He must have let out some kind of strangled _Swan_ because she actually laughed, teeth tugging on her lower lip and that wasn’t even fair.

“Ah, that’s true,” she amended and he moved immediately as soon as she started pulling on fabric. “I just didn’t want to jinx it.”  
  
“You couldn’t do that, Swan.”

The words kind of felt like they were choking him, not quite as easy as the three games they’d won already and it was absolutely because of the look on her face and the feel of her next to him and if they _did_ clinch that night, then Killian was half certain it was only because of how desperate he was to stay in this moment.

“I thought there were rules,” she challenged. “God, you’ve got to take these off.”  
  
“What are you trying to do exactly?” He knew _exactly_ what she was trying to do – was halfway on his way to ensuring that she got to do it several times before either one of them had to get on the downtown one.

“Have I not made that clear?”  
  
“You’re not exactly talking, Swan. Except for some very early-morning facts.”  
  
“That was just my lead-in, get you interested with pertinent hockey facts and then keep you appropriately distracted with...not hockey facts.”  
  
Killian chuckled, but it might have turned into a groan when Emma’s foot found its way in between his legs, trying to push boxers into blankets and there was absolutely no need for a lead-in.

He should have said that.

He’d lost the ability to think. Or speak. Or do anything that wasn’t kissing his girlfriend a few hours before they could clinch a berth to the next round.

Emma gasped softly when they moved, her back on the mattress and Killian hovering just above her and his hand worked its way up underneath the fabric of the shirt she still had on. He’d probably think about that sound for the rest of the day.

That would probably make morning skate weird.

And if these last three games had been some kind of easy sweep, then this was even more simple. This – over-eager mornings and hockey facts and not-hockey facts and waking up with hair in his face – was as simple as breathing or stick-handling in between two defenders.

That wasn’t quite as romantic as Killian had been hoping for.

It hadn’t been some kind of straight line to this, had hardly been the stringent blue line he’d been certain had shaped his entire career and what he was allowed. It had been a criss-cross of emotions and feelings and _finding_ and if he’d been looking for some kind of family and some sort of home somewhere, then he was positive he’d found it in Emma Swan and that sound she kept making whenever his lips found hers.

Emma’s hips hit his and then _he_ was the one making that noise, sighing against her mouth and the hands that kept holding onto him like they were trying to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

Not for a ridiculous number of zeroes or even after she’d gotten her own apartment or whatever happened in the playoffs.

He wasn’t a fool.

He knew it wouldn’t always be easy and they might sweep, but there were still three more rounds and his hand would probably be perpetually bruised by the time all of this was over.

Killian didn’t care. And for the first time in his entire career, he was ready for all of it, no matter what happened at the end.

“You didn’t have to have a lead-in, you know,” he mumbled, tracing down her jaw and there were goosebumps on her skin. He smiled at that.

“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian promised. “Although I am consistently impressed by how many facts you just have at your disposal.”

His fingers traced along her thigh and he could hear Emma’s breathing pick up, smile inching across his face at that and he was some kind of reaction hoarder now because he was documenting every single one of them.

“Good, that’s...good to know,” she said and it came out a bit like a sigh when he moved his hand again. “Are you teasing on purpose or just because you’re the only one who actually took their clothes off?”  
  
“Swan, are you suggesting you’d like me to take your clothes off?”  
  
“You’re infuriating, you know that?”  
  
“I choose to see it as endearing. I seem to remember someone once saying it was charming. Too charming, if we want to get technical.”  
  
“I must have been delusional.”  
  
“Ah, somehow, I doubt that.”  
  
“So confident.”  
  
Killian hummed and Emma’s hips were moving again, chasing after _exactly_ what she’d had planned with the lead-in and there was something to be said for waking up early if this was how it ended up. It seemed to end up like this more often than not.

He moved again, fingers tracing out patterns on the inside of her leg and he was only vaguely concerned with the amount of damage she was doing to her bottom lip. The rest of him was very focused on the way her chest kept moving, like she was trying to catch her breath and couldn’t quite get there.

He loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.

“Killian,” Emma sighed, her grip on his hips tightening.

“What, Swan?” She tried to glare when he started smirking at her, eyebrows moving quickly and hand slowing until he was barely moving. “I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you want. Exactly.”

He swiped his tongue over his lips when her eyes met his and something flashed across her face at his words. It looked like determination.

Emma Swan knew what she wanted – always.

And it might have been him.

That made it difficult for Killian to breathe.

She grabbed his hand, fingers wrapping around his wrist and yanking him forward until he was balancing on one forearm so he didn’t fall on top of her.

“Still not being very descriptive, Swan,” Killian muttered and if this was some kind of game, he was almost enjoying himself _too_ much.

“Visual learner,” she challenged, shifting again and he didn’t care about anything outside of that apartment when his hand moved in between her legs.

Killian groaned, determined not to actually collapse and Emma squeezed her eyes shut and if he didn’t love her more than anything then it was the biggest lie he’d ever tried to tell himself.

He lost track of time at some point, far too focused on everything else and that database of sounds he was, apparently, collecting. And he might have mumbled a handful of promises in her ear, everything he’d been thinking for the last month, but had never been willing to give credence to.

She didn’t say anything back, just kept her hands on his back and fingers in his hair and when he, finally, moved again, she seemed to breathe him in and it was easy as that. It was as easy as breathing.

This made more sense than anything else ever had.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Emma asked later, head on his shoulder and arm flung over his stomach and he’d been tracing across the back of her hand without even realizing he was moving.

Killian lifted one eyebrow and she groaned, burying her face against his chest. “God, not that. Jeez.”  
  
“What do you want to talk about, Swan?”  
  
She tapped her fingers against his side for a few moments before answering and Killian couldn’t see her face, but he would have bet a fair amount of money he maybe didn’t have that she was biting her lip.

“TV,” Emma mumbled.

“No,” he said immediately and, perhaps, a bit sharper, than he’d intended. “I don’t.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
He sighed and Emma propped her head up on her hand, staring at him expectantly and a bit more nervously than he would have wanted, all things considered. “It’s awfully greedy, don’t you think?” Killian asked and maybe this conversation would have been easier if they were in his apartment.

Home ice or whatever.

“What is?” Emma pressed.

“Wanting everything.”  
  
Her smile almost looked sad and for two people who were just a few hours away from moving on to the next round of the playoffs, this conversation had taken a decidedly negative turn. Maybe they should just start kissing some more.

That seemed like a distraction.

“That’s not true,” Emma said and there was a determination in her voice that caught Killian off guard.  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” she repeated, shaking her head. Her hair almost hit him in the face again. “This team is...it doesn’t make any sense. You have a restaurant that you’ve claimed as your own and everyone knows everything about each other and, God, the Locksley's are going to adopt Henry. We should be featured on some sort of SportsCenter special.”  
  
“E60, definitely.”  
  
“A 30-for-30 at least. Multi-parter”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh and some of the tension that had taken up residence in his shoulders and his slightly bruised left hand dissipated at the look on her face. “You said we again,” he pointed out.

“Aren’t we? Like a mini team or something.”  
  
“As in you and me?” Killian asked, hand moving again and there were goosebumps on Emma’s arm.

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then no,” Emma said, smile wide and Killian would have sworn he could feel it settle into the very center of him in the middle of that bed. “That’s not greedy. You deserve this, Killian. A playoff run and a max deal and another picture on the side of the Garden. No one should have that more than you.”  
  
It wasn’t very often he didn’t know what to say – they’d been given media training after they got drafted and Killian could answer questions as easily as anything, even if he sometimes did his best to avoid him – but he wasn’t quite prepared for the certainty in Emma’s voice or the palm pressed flat against his chest like she was willing him to get her to believe him.

“Careful, Swan,” he mumbled, wrapping his hand around hers and dragging his lips over her knuckles. “That was bordering dangerously close to a compliment.”  
  
“Ah, well, maybe I’m just feeling generous. Make sure you’ve got some positive thoughts heading into a clincher.”

“I’m not going to take the TV deal.”  
  
“I know you’re not,” Emma said. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Easy. You’re going to win a Stanley Cup.”

“I love you, you know that?”  
  
Emma nodded, smile still on her face and laughter ringing in his ears when he tugged her flush against him. “Weird, I wasn’t picking up on that at all.”

He kissed her and it wasn’t a distraction or even an attempt at a distraction, it was just that _want_ he’d been talking about before and it would have been somewhere in the realm of perfect if the front door to her apartment didn’t swing open at the same time.

Emma yelped, eyes going wide and hand desperate for blankets and Mary Margaret looked like she was going to pass out.

“Oh my God,” she sputtered, face flushed and mouth hanging open. Killian laughed, but it turned into a groan when Emma smacked at his shoulder.

Mary Margaret appeared frozen.

“Jeez, Reese’s what are you doing?” Emma asked, blankets pulled up over her shoulders. “Didn’t we say noon?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Mary Margaret said quickly. She was staring at the ceiling. “But it’s almost noon. I just figured…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be at morning skate?”  
  
“I don’t have to be downtown until two,” Killian explained. “Morning skate is more mid-afternoon skate when you can clinch.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that kind of makes sense.”  
  
“Kind of.”  
  
“Reese’s you’ve got to go back outside,” Emma implored and her face was red as well. Killian did his best not to laugh again.

“What? Why?”  
  
“Oh my God. C’mon Reese’s don’t make me actually spell it out for you.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes, somehow, managed to get even wider and she nearly dropped whatever it was she was holding – what appeared to be several containers filled with food. She wavered for half a moment, eyes darting towards the refrigerator and Emma and back up to the ceiling and she nodded once before nearly sprinting out the door.

Killian laughed loudly as soon as she was gone, body shaking and Emma punched against his side. “You’re going to hurt me, Swan,” he said reasonably, grabbing her hand and grinning at her.

She huffed, falling back onto the mattress. “God,” Emma muttered. “She wasn’t supposed to be here until noon.”  
  
“Well, it is, apparently, almost noon.”  
  
“We had a schedule, though.”  
  
“Somehow I think we’ll survive. Is she just trying to feed you?”

Emma hummed, arm thrown over her face. “She thinks I’m starving. Something about having nothing in my fridge and I’ve got my own apartment, but no time to really make it _mine_ . Just, you know, normal mom stuff.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing, love.”  
  
“No, no, it’s not. And if she’d shown up at twelve it would have been totally fine.”  
  
“That embarrassed to have Mary Margaret see me?” Killian asked, pulling Emma’s arm away from her face. “I think she’s already aware we were doing this before.” She pressed her lips together and _open book_ had never been more obvious. “What?”

“I wasn’t embarrassed by that.”

“What then?”  
  
“I’ve never brought anybody back,” she said quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. “I mean, you know, to my place or whatever. Reese’s did and David basically lived in our apartment in Boston and then, obviously, here. But when I was in Vancouver and LA, I didn’t do...this.”  
  
“This.”  
  
“Yeah. I had my space and they had their space and I was cool going to them, but not so much vice versa.”  
  
Words, it appeared, were becoming more and more difficult the longer Killian spent in that bed. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and made a noise in the back of her throat. “Anyway,” she said, trying to brush over his lack of response. “That’s why. She was probably just surprised you were here. We should probably get dressed though.”

She moved, half sitting up and Killian wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her up short. “I’m glad I’m here,” he said and Emma’s eyes widened slightly.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Always.”

Emma nodded once. “Put some clothes on, Cap. We can’t afford to let Reese’s leave here totally scandalized.”

Mary Margaret hadn’t let him leave without, at least, taking ten minutes to eat and he’d have to tell El that someone else was giving her a run for her _mom_ money. And morning skate was as easy as Killian had promised it would be, hardly anything more than taking a few shots at an empty net and Jefferson hadn’t even bothered putting on his pads.

They were going to win – Killian was certain and he was mostly just anxious for the game to be over so he could get back to his apartment or Emma’s apartment and wake up with hair in his face again.

He could hear the cheers already, the pregame noise and he shifted his weight between his skates, tapping the end of his stick on the floor.

“Relax,” Robin muttered a few feet behind him. “It’s going to be fine.”  
  
“I know,” Killian said easily, glancing over his shoulder. Robin looked the opposite of fine. “What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Locksley. You’re doing that thing with your eyes.”  
  
“That thing with my eyes?”  
  
“Yeah, like you’re trying to look in two different directions at once.”  
  
“That’s impossible.”  
  
“What’s the matter with you?”  
  
Will groaned loudly at the other end of the line and it sounded like he was hitting his stick up against the wall. “Are you two really going to do this now? Right now? They’re literally about to drop the puck.”  
  
“Well, to be fair,” Killian argued. “I have no idea what we’re doing because Locksley’s got that thing with his eyes.”  
  
“I hate that thing. It’s unnatural.”  
  
“See,” Killian said, staring at Robin and this couldn’t have been good for his neck.

Robin glared at him, but his shoulders sagged and they were, apparently, doing this right now. “You’re really ok with this?”  
  
“Clinching a first-round series? Yeah.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Be more specific then.”  
  
He took a deep breath and his gaze was heavy when it landed on Killian. “About Henry,” Robin sighed. “You’re really ok with that?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“Cap. For real?”  
  
“Don’t blame him, Locksley,” Will shouted. “He’s been spending all that time at Emma’s apartment. His mind’s not totally focused on anything else.”  
  
“Shut up Scarlet,” Killian muttered, not looking away from Robin. “Seriously though. Why wouldn’t I be? This is a good thing.”  
  
Robin made a face. “No, no, it is. I just…”  
  
“You were running away before, Cap,” Will finished. “And you were all anti-this and all of us interfering and Locksley’s terrified his painfully adorable family is going to scare you off again.”  
  
Ah.

He really had almost fucked up everything.

Robin’s eyes were going to bore a hole in the Garden floor. “No,” Killian said. “It’s not.”

The music in the Garden was ridiculously loud and they’d already started _Potvin sucks_ chants. It would have been impressive if Killian didn’t feel like he was _waiting_ for something.

“We should probably buy Emma something,” Will said and it lacked his usual sarcasm. “Like a thank you or wait, what’s she always drinking? Hot chocolate, right?”  
  
“We could show up at her post-game thing,” Robin suggested and the lights at the end of the hallway were starting to flicker. They needed to get on the ice.

Killian wasn’t certain how anyone would expect him to skate after this.

“What do you think, Cap?” Will continued. “You think we’d start some sort of riot if we showed up at a fan event in midtown?”  
  
“I don’t think we’re that famous,” Killian said. He didn’t fall over when his skates hit the ice. That probably meant something. “And it’s during the game, anyway.”  
  
“Ah, well that’s dumb.”  
  
“I’ll be sure to mention that.”  
  
“Don’t be an ass.”  
  
“But you make it so easy.”

Will grumbled, skidding to a stop next to him on the blue line and Robin was still staring at him like he’d never quite seen him before – it probably had something to do with the smile practically plastered on Killian’s face at this point.

“You’re right, you know,” Robin muttered.

“About?”  
  
“This is good.”  
  
Killian didn’t answer – notes of the anthem filling the arena, but he didn’t stop smiling either.

They won.

A series sweep in the first-round and a 2-1 victory and Scarlet would probably never stop talking about his game-winner. There were cameras everywhere and reporters and phones pushed in faces, all of them a bit desperate to get thoughts on the win and who they’d face next and whether or not they heard the Penguins had won that night too.

They had. The reporters made sure they had.  

“It was just all instinct,” Will said, grinning into half a dozen cameras with that stupid hat on his head and it was all so different than it had been a year before.

Killian rolled his eyes when Will kept talking about reading a defense and how he knew his shot would come if he waited for it and Robin didn’t even try and mask his laughter. “Idiot,” Killian mumbled.

“He hasn’t had a game-winner all season,” Robin reasoned. “Leave him alone.”  
  
“Sure thing, Dad.”  
  
They were definitely breaking some kind of fire code, bodies packed into the locker room and there was barely enough room to move, let alone _hear_ anything, but it would have been impossible to mistake the voice shouting for both Killian and Robin when she marched towards them.

“Ten-hut or whatever,” Ruby said, arms already crossed like she was ready for a fight. “Time for your post-game reaction.”  
  
“We did post already, Lucas,” Robin countered.

“Fan videos. Emma’s in the hallway where it’s at least, kind of, quieter. And you guys can talk about how psyched you are for the next series and how great Scarlet’s goal was.”  
  
“I’m not talking about Scarlet’s goal,” Killian said immediately, already halfway out the door.

“Too bad. Game-winner is a game-winner. Talk about it, Cap. And, speaking of talking, any reviews on Mary Margaret’s macaroni and cheese?”

“You know gossipping is a very unattractive habit.”  
  
“Luckily you don’t have to be attracted to me. Go help your girlfriend do her job.”

Killian saluted and Ruby made a face, heels echoing behind him as he made his way down the hallway.

The team-merch from that morning was now a dress and a blazer and Killian was only vaguely frustrated by Ruby’s gaze flitting between him and Emma, that expectant smile on her face like she was about to take credit for even the idea of them being happy. Emma’s head snapped up when she heard them, eyebrows pulled low and she tugged her hair over her shoulder.

“You’re not Scarlet,” she said.

“That’s true,” Killian agreed. “Should I be?”  
  
“Well he did score the game-winner. Fans were kind of clamoring for him. You guys’ll work though. Just, you know, talk about Scarlet’s goal. That’s all people care about.”  
  
“God, don’t tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it. How’d your in-game stuff go?”  
  
“Good,” Emma said, taking a step towards him and Ruby made some kind of gagging noise when her hands pulled on the front of his shirt. “Ridiculously good actually. I think Rol’s a bad influence on Henry now, by the way.”  
  
“What, why?”  
  
“They’ve fine-tuned some kind of round-robin cheer that incorporates both the goal song and _Let’s go Rangers_ and it’s both the most adorable and annoying thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”  
  
“It’s definitely annoying,” Robin muttered, feet crossed at the ankles as he leaned back against the wall. “They were practicing the entire car ride home last night.”  
  
Emma laughed softly and something felt like it stuttered in Killian’s chest or maybe in his pulse. “They going to let you go to Boston?” he asked, fingers lacing through Emma’s.

“Yeah, actually. Since it’s so close. I won’t be able to go to the Garden, which kind of sucks, but we’ll do some Rangerstown stuff when you guys are there.”  
  
“She’s been e-mailing some hotel bar since the second intermission,” Ruby added and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

“Second intermission, Swan?” Killian asked. “We weren’t winning yet.”  
  
She clicked her tongue. “Film your post-game thing, Jones.”  
  
“You know, love, I think this is what some people would call evading the question.”  
  
“Was there a question?”  
  
“You started making phone calls to a hotel during intermission. Before Scarlet’s game winner.”  
  
“Just being prepared,” Emma muttered, nodding towards a Rangers backdrop he hadn’t noticed before.

“Good at your job.”

“Was that a compliment, Captain?”

Her eyes flashed up to him and the smile on her face was enough to warrant turning down all those zeroes – from TV and other teams and _this was the year._ It had to be. Killian took a step towards her and he could feel the turn of her lips when he kissed her, hand tight on her waist as she moved her arms around his neck.

They might have been there for days or weeks and maybe they’d won the Cup already. Ruby coughed loudly and Robin laughed under his breath when they finally moved apart.

“God, don’t come to Boston, Emma,” Ruby sighed. “This is gross.”  
  
“The worst,” Emma laughed, twisting when Killian kissed the top of her head. “Come on, film your stuff and then we can go eat, I’m starving.”

The video went out to fans just a few minutes after they filmed and there were more reporter questions and desperate cries about _deadlines_ and Killian walked out of the arena with a smile still plastered on his face and Emma’s hand tied up in his.

And it was good and perfect and everything it hadn’t been at the same time last year – or it would have been if either one of them had noticed the cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family feeeeeelings. Sports feeeeeelings. Playoff feeeeeelings. There is really nothing better than playoff hockey - I'll fight anyone on this - so get ready for some fun and some drama and then some more drama and making out in various cities. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and commenting and being generally wonderful. @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	36. Chapter 36

“You really didn’t have to come with me,” Emma said and it was probably the twelfth time she’d said it in the last half hour.

Mary Margaret didn’t look impressed. She had, after all, promised it had been fine each of the last dozen times Emma had questioned it.

“You’d be bored by yourself,” Mary Margaret argued.

“You’re slacking on those counterpoints Reese’s. I’ve got, no less than, twenty-six different things to do by puck drop.”  
  
“Isn’t that soon?”  
  
“A beacon of support,” Emma laughed.

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, glancing down at the detailed schedule Emma had given her as soon as they’d set foot in the hotel lobby that morning. It hadn’t really been part of the plan – splitting games in Boston and Arthur was bordering close to _complete breakdown_ , pulling Jefferson in the third period of the second game, but they’d _bounced back_ in New York, back-to-back wins to set up a game-clinching situation that night.

Or, well, the team had bounced back.

Killian, it seemed, couldn’t keep the puck on his stick this series.

It hadn’t been particularly pretty and the tabs hadn’t been kind to any of them, making sure, every day, to harp on _Killian Jones’ latest skid and how that was going to affect the Rangers’ run and maybe Cap should score if he wanted to win a Cup and stay in New York_.

The headline was a bit more concise than all of that.

Emma’s mind was just a jumbled mess and they needed to stick to the schedule because she really did have twenty-six different things to do before puck drop.

She was glad Mary Margaret showed up at her front of her door the night before, a bag in her hand and promises that she was coming to Boston with Emma.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret said, sitting up a bit straighter. “What do we have to do first?”  
  
“Teacher voice,” Emma mumbled. It was a deflection, but it kind of felt like her heart had sped up in her chest and Mary Margaret had given up spring break for this.

“Well, to be fair, you look about as overwhelmed as some of my kids. Come on, you’ve got a ton of stuff on here. What do we have to do first?”

Emma twisted the ends of her hair, eyes falling on the laces she still had tied around her wrist. She’d never actually taken them off. “We need to talk to the music people and make sure they set up where the hotel said we could set up and there’s merch somewhere in this hotel that we’re supposed to auction off for GD.”  
  
“How did you get merch here?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Kristoff brought it.”  
  
“Is it already signed?”

Emma shook her head. “We’re deviating from the norm today. Just game-worn. The guys have kind of had some other things going on. Arthur would probably kill me if I even suggested having them sign anything for me.”  
  
“Sounds like they’re almost as busy as you.”  
  
“That sounded decidedly overprotective, Mom.”  
  
Mary Margaret waved her hand through the air, nose scrunched slightly as she shook her head. “I’m proud of you. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Emma repeated, but her heartbeat hadn’t quite settled yet.

“He’s totally going to score tonight,” Mary Margaret added softly. Emma didn’t expect that.

“That was a quick transition.”  
  
“David might not be here, but he’s had a lot of thoughts on the status of whatever skid _The Post_ seems to think Killian is riding.”

Two weeks. Since Game Two of the first series. He’d scored on a rebound in Montreal and she’d texted him about it and he’d actually called her in response. That was the last time. And six games wasn’t really a lot, not in the grand scheme of a season, but it was an eternity for the face of a franchise in a do-or-die playoff run.

The headline in _The Post_ that morning had been awful, hardly even clever and they’d used his name as part of the pun twice that week. _Kill’ian the Vibe_.

It would have been funny if she wasn’t so worried. That was probably why Mary Margaret insisted she come to Boston.

“It’ll be fine,” Emma mumbled, slumping down in her chair.

Mary Margaret smiled sympathetically, hand falling on Emma’s shoulder. “Of course it will,” she promised as if that would ensure that it would. “David’s pretty certain.”  
  
“Pretty certain?”  
  
“He said it was, and I’m quoting here, inevitable. Something about Boston’s terrible defense and how close that post was last game.”

“Close, but not a goal,” Emma argued.

Mary Margaret’s lips quirked. “Ah, that sounds like Killian.”

“It was.”

“Did you give him that food? Or just steal all the mac and cheese for yourself?”  
  
“Who do you think I am, Reese’s?” Emma scoffed, crossing her arms lightly. “Of course I gave him the food. He walked out of your apartment with the food. And you don’t need to mother both of us. We both know how to make food.”  
  
Mary Margaret made a noise under her breath and Emma lowered her eyebrows. “What?” she asked.

“It’s not because I don’t think you can’t make your own food. I’m well aware you can make your own food.”  
  
“Then why are you forcing mac and cheese at me and Killian every time we see you?”

“That’s why,” Mary Margaret said, pointing at Emma for extra emphasis.

“If I’m supposed to just get it, I’m not.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and Emma wasn’t certain she realized her fingers had made their way to her engagement ring out of instinct. “You know what he asked me the other day?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Emma!”  
  
“Reese’s we honestly don’t have time for this,” Emma said. There was a hotel employee lurking nearby – a clipboard in hand and a slightly frustrated look on their face and they were, collectively, five minutes behind schedule now.

“You want to know what he asked me or not? And if you say _who_ again, I’m going to rip up your schedule right in the middle of this hotel lobby.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together – so she didn’t actually laugh at the serious look on Mary Margaret’s face – and she nodded once. “He asked what he was supposed to wear to the wedding.”  
  
“Your wedding?”  
  
“I’m going to rip your schedule apart.”  
  
“Ah, but you’re not considering the fact that I’ve got the whole thing memorized. That paper copy was just to make sure you knew what was going on.”  
  
Mary Margaret groaned, rolling her head back onto the top of the chair and the hotel employee was actually sighing at regular intervals at this point. Emma was almost waiting for the lasers to start shooting out of his eyes.

“How come you didn’t tell him what to wear?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Honestly?” She nodded and Emma shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This wasn’t the kind of conversation they should be having in the middle of a hotel lobby, now, seven minutes behind schedule. “I kind of forgot,” Emma sighed and it wasn’t the lie she wished it was. “It’s just been one thing after another. The game and Henry and then the deadline and now it’s all playoffs all the time. Why don’t you think he asked me?”  
  
“Maybe he realized you forgot too,” Mary Margaret mumbled. Emma’s eyes widened. “Ah, sorry, that was kind of harsh.”  
  
“Decidedly un-Reese’s like.”  
  
“It’s because I’ve got so much on my mind. Apparently Storybrooke is in revolt.”  
  
Emma hadn’t expected that either. The hotel worker had moved closer to them, half a step away and she waved him off before he could announce they were, now, eight and a half minutes behind schedule. “About?”  
  
“Exactly what you’d expect it to be. No big wedding at home, no bringing David back like some sort of suitor so the whole town can pass judgement. We didn’t want any of that. We just want to get married.”  
  
“That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Emma said, doing her best not to actually sigh.

Mary Margaret laughed. “Oh, please.”  
  
“I’m serious. It’s...nice.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“If I wasn’t so stressed out about team events I’d be able to come up with a few more adjectives,” Emma said, nodding in the direction of the hotel employee and his clipboard.

“Ah, I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve got enough going on without me pushing wedding issues onto the schedule. And, if we’re going to be completely honest, this may be why I kind of forced myself on your team trip.”  
  
“It’s not a team trip if we drove down here ourselves, Reese’s.”  
  
“It’s absolutely a team trip. Clipboard guy here just proves that.”  
  
Emma chuckled and clipboard guy had started actually tapping out some sort of impatient rhythm against the imitation wood. The glare would probably linger on his face for the rest of the day. He was probably a Bruins fan.

“He can deal,” Emma muttered quickly, leaning forward to rest her hand on Mary Margaret’s knee. “I’m glad you’re here. Perpetually, for the rest of time. And if you need someone to yell at the general population of Storybrooke, then I’m your girl.”  
  
Mary Margaret beamed at her, eyes glossier than they should have been. “I think Ruby’s taking care of that. Although she’s kind of nervous about telling off my dad. She said she drew the line there. And then mentioned something about the color scheme and how she was giving up enough for me.”  
  
“It’s because she spends so much time around blue.”

“It’s mostly my dad,” Mary Margaret mumbled. “He’s not too big on the castle in New York idea.”  
  
“I’ll tell your dad to shut up,” Emma offered immediately and there wasn’t a hint of a lie in her words. She would have.

She probably would have done anything for Mary Margaret at this point.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mary Margaret argued, but her voice lacked a bit of the determination Emma had always associated with her.

“Reese’s, you let me live on your couch for _months_ . You still won’t let me or my boyfriend try to feed ourselves. The least I can do is provide some strongly worded sentiment in your wedding corner.”  
  
“You could have stayed on that couch forever and I wouldn’t have minded.”  
  
“I probably would have done permanent damage to my neck.”

Mary Margaret hummed in agreement, rubbing quickly at her cheeks so Emma wouldn’t notice the tears she’d already seen. “You said boyfriend,” she mumbled.

“It’s a little high school, I know…” Emma started quickly, but Mary Margaret shook her head.

“No, no, I don’t care about that. That’s just the first time I’ve ever heard you use that word. Ever.”  
  
“Ever?” Emma repeated skeptically and that couldn’t be right. She’d had boyfriends before. She’d talked to Mary Margaret about them before. She’d...no.

She’d never used the word boyfriend out loud before.

And it would have been almost depressing if it also didn’t send a wave of _something_ down her spine, some kind of overwhelming sense of emotion and meaning and _home_ right there in the middle of Boston.

“Ever,” Mary Margaret nodded.

“Huh.”

“Although maybe we can avoid a repeat of your apartment a couple of days ago. I don’t think I was quite prepared for that.”  
  
“Did we scandalize you, Mom? Stop coming in without knocking.”  
  
“I did knock! You were otherwise occupied. Just be glad it was me and not David. He probably would have challenged Killian to some kind of on-ice competition.”  
  
“I’m surprised he hasn’t offered him a spot in the department’s rec league,” Emma laughed and something in her felt like it shifted at how easily this had all become hers. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been waiting for _it_ until she got it.  
  
“He doesn’t want him distracted from postseason glory,” Mary Margaret said, rolling her eyes before her face turned serious. “That’s why I keep trying to give you mac and cheese, you know? Both of you.”  
  
Emma ignored whatever _fluttering_ was happening in the pit of her stomach and tried to push her feet into the floor. “Yeah, I kind of figured. What did you tell him?”

“About what?”  
  
“What to wear to the wedding.”

“That it might be hot, so he didn’t have to wear a jacket, but your dress was very blue and he might want to remember that when picking out a tie.”  
  
One of her feet slid along the floor. She’d lost control of her limbs. And the world might have been spinning – more than usual. Emma would probably never stop smiling. “Thanks, Reese’s,” she mumbled.

“No matter what,” Mary Margaret said, grabbing Emma’s hand and hooking their pinkies together. “Come on, according to your very detailed schedule, we’re very, very late.”

Mary Margaret was, apparently, some kind of schedule-following God-send.

She apologized profusely to the hotel worker and got him to stop tapping on his clipboard and then, for good measure, organized all of the merch and got a line of _over a hundred fans_ into the hotel without any argument and in a single-file line.

It was a Rangerstown miracle.

“You can come on every single road trip from here on out, Reese’s,” Emma said later that night, tucked into the corner of the room with one eye on her event and the other on the game.

They were two minutes from puck drop and the opening notes of the anthem were bleeding across the room as the crowd actually started to _shush_ each other.

Emma rolled her eyes at the noise and the sea of blue and white stretched in front of her, all of them focused on the screen they’d rented for the series-clincher.

God, she hoped it was the series clincher.

The Penguins swept the Capitals and it hadn’t even been that close – Soyer racking up penalty minutes and more ice time than he had all season and he wasn’t on a scoring skid. He’d scored twice when they played in Pittsburgh.

The anthem finished and someone shouted _Let’s go Rangers_ and the whole group cheered. It helped ease some of that worry in the pit of Emma’s stomach.

Mary Margaret shifted next to her, shoulder brushing against Emma’s jersey and for half a moment it was fine, good, better than – a mix of emotions and expectations and she was _confident_. They were going to win.

They’d get a couple of days off and then go to Pittsburgh.

It was all going according to plan.

“Where’s Killian?” Mary Margaret muttered and a few of the fans nearby echoed the sentiment, questions and comments and no one tried to shush them.

They’d plugged the MSG feed into the speakers and Emma strained to hear what they were saying, hardly even registering that they’d dropped the puck and lost the faceoff already. The words seemed to sink into her slowly and it felt a bit like falling on ice, like her feet were sliding across the hotel floor again and Mary Margaret’s hand moved to her shoulder.

_Taken off his line for the first time in...what is it Joe? Must be six years, at least. Yeah, yeah, we’ve got it here. Six years. Always played with Locksley, a one-two punch for the Rangers offense since they both joined the Blueshirts. Can’t imagine what Jones is thinking here..._

They panned to the bench and Emma’s eyes widened, the breath she didn’t realize she was holding rushing out of her. Mary Margaret kept biting her lip.

He didn’t look mad.

His fingers were wrapped tightly around his stick though and Emma would have bet his knuckles were white inside his gloves.

 _This just, well, it came out of left field didn’t it, Sam? We asked Stylo about the skid with Jones and his plus-minus rating hasn’t been great, but he is the captain of this team and it’s an interesting move in a potential series-clincher_.

There was more talk about moral and speculation about what went into the choice and Emma was going to kill Arthur. Mary Margaret was muttering something, probably something positive or supportive and all the reasons Emma should not murder the head coach of the New York Rangers in Boston.

He hadn’t said anything. Arthur most not have told him anything – just switched up lines before a series-clincher and it took nearly three minutes before Killian swung his legs over the boards and got on the ice and the whole goddamn crowd of blue in front of Emma started cheering.

“I’m going to kill Arthur,” Emma mumbled, not entirely certain she’d said the words out loud until Mary Margaret gasped.

“You can’t do that.”  
  
“Yeah, probably not. At least not at the Garden. Oh, maybe in between the game and the hotel.”

“Emma.”  
  
“He didn’t know,” Emma said, doing her best to keep her voice low. Mary Margaret tugged her farther into the corner. “He didn’t know anything. I...I talked to him before the game. Arthur just pulled him off the line.”

“Maybe he just wanted to test some new looks. Or something. I don’t know how hockey works.”  
  
“Not like this,” Emma hissed, glancing over her shoulder when the crowd _oohed_ and _aahed_ and that new guy, August whatever, had checked somebody.

August was skating first line.

Emma groaned, not even trying to mask her frustration, as she threw her head back and traced back through memories of afternoon text messages. Nothing.

He hadn’t known. He'd sent her facts before the game – 

**The first American lighthouse was built in Boston Harbor in 17...something.**

_Shouldn’t you be skating?  
_  
**I’m about to, aren’t you impressed by lighthouses?**

_Fishing for compliments, Jones._

**You just made an ocean joke, Swan, and you didn’t even realize it.**

_Maybe that was the point all along. Maybe you’re the one who should be impressed by me._

**Consistently.**

– It had made her stomach flip and Mary Margaret had actually asked what was going on, ignoring hotel worker’s quiet tuts of disapproval whenever Emma glanced at her phone.

Killian would have told her if he’d known. Right? Of course. Absolutely. He would have said.  
Yeah.

Definitely.

She was, at least, ninety-six percent certain. Maybe ninety-six and a half.

It was the rest that worried her and Emma could almost _feel_ the doubt creeping into the back of her mind, feet not quite as certain on hardwood floors as Mary Margaret kept staring at her.

“Arthur’s just trying to spark something,” Mary Margaret said and Emma lowered her eyebrows in confusion. She held up her phone, still vibrating in her hand, and Emma could see the string of text messages on the screen. “That’s what David said, at least.”  
  
“Right,” Emma agreed, not quite certain she did. “Right, right. Of course.”  
  
Mary Margaret narrowed her eyes, hand tightening on Emma’s shoulder. The crowd cheered again and Emma hardly noticed it, mind racing and thoughts she hadn’t considered in weeks, making it a bit more difficult than normal to stay upright.

August was fighting. She could hear the punches land and the crowd cheering and it took thirty seconds for the Bruins to score.

Arthur probably snapped another whiteboard.

Emma sighed, thumb looping through her laces and Mary Margaret’s lips shifted. She was trying not to smile.

“If you get sentimental on me right now, Reese’s,” Emma warned, “I’m probably going to have some kind of complete meltdown in this hotel.”  
  
Mary Margaret laughed. “You can’t do that. That’s not on your schedule.”  
  
“Fair point. How is David watching this game? I thought he was out saving the entire city?”  
  
“Paperwork,” Mary Margaret corrected.

“I heard it was a mountain.”  
  
“He exaggerates. And procrastinates.”  
  
“You know, I think that was almost not a compliment, Reese’s. You’re, like, a whole other person in Boston.”  
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but her head snapped back towards the screen when the fans started singing the goal song. “I think we scored.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Not Killian,” Mary Margaret sighed and it nearly sounded like an apology. “Oh, but it’s good. Phillip is good. We like Phillip.”  
  
“We do,” Emma agreed.

“And a tie game!”  
  
“Also a positive. You’ve effectively done your job, Reese’s,” Emma smiled. “A beacon of light and support in tough playoff times.”

“If David were here, he’d sigh dramatically at you.”  
  
“Are you not going to?”  
  
“Not really my thing. Even in Boston.”  
  
Emma smiled and she’d have to write the best maid of honor speech in the history of maid of honor speeches to pay Mary Margaret back for that afternoon. It would, apparently, have to wait until after her phone stopped ringing.

“Everyone I know is watching this game,” Emma muttered, tugging her phone out of her back pocket to glance at the name on the screen.

Aurora.

“Isn’t that Phillip’s girlfriend?”  
  
“Fiancée .”  
  
“Does everyone on this team fall in love?”  
  
“Reese’s, the set-up was your idea. Your hands are not completely clean here.”  
  
“Whatever. You better answer before she hangs up.”  
  
“Or just calls back again,” Emma mumbled, making a face as she swiped her thumb across the screen and pushed towards the relative quiet of the hotel lobby.

“Emma,” Aurora said. She sounded out of breath. “Are you by yourself?”

“As by myself as I can be in the middle of an event. What’s going on Aurora?”  
  
“I have news.”  
  
Emma’s heart stuttered and she was almost positive several internal organs had fallen on the floor. That hotel guy probably wouldn’t be happy with that.

“Bad news?” she asked. Aurora wouldn’t know about first-line stuff. Probably. Unless Phillip had told her. Jeez.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Aurora said quickly. “The opposite of that actually. The best news. Or, at least, really, really good news.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“That house.”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly, one hand held in the air and she knew Aurora couldn’t actually _see_ her confusion from New York. “I’m not sure I follow.”  
  
“The Garden of Dreams one. The one that was closing.”

“Was?”  
  
Aurora made some kind of noise in the affirmative. “Was.”  
  
“You’ve got to be more descriptive, Aurora.”  
  
She laughed softly and Emma heard her nod against the phone. “You did it, Emma. The charity game and the scholarships and then the auction from the charity game. They’re not going to close anymore. Those kids aren’t going anywhere.”

Emma slumped against the chair she hadn’t realized she was sitting in, mouth going slack and only dimly aware of the collective groan that came from the event room. The Bruins must have scored. It almost didn’t matter.

“Aurora are you serious?” Emma asked sharply, those thoughts that had made their way back to the forefront of _her_ refusing to believe.

“Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“But how? I mean we raised a good amount of money, but it was hardly enough to keep a whole house like that open.”  
  
“I think you’re underestimating how much work you did.”  
  
“No,” Emma argued. “I know how much work I did. I’m just questioning how this is possible.”  
  
“Not so great at that whole just believing things are you?”  
  
“I’ve worked in this league long enough to know things never really go the way you plan. Come on, how did this happen?”  
  
Aurora made a noise and Mary Margaret was halfway into the lobby – they needed to get back on schedule, intermission events to follow and merch to give away and Emma was still confused.

“You might have had some help,” Aurora said slowly. “But, I mean, this is really your thing and the game really did, apparently, pay for most of it...”  
  
“Who?” Emma asked, cutting her off.

“Who what?”  
  
“Who helped, Aurora?”  
  
It took the entire first intermission for her to answer – or it felt that way – and Emma tried not actually groan into the phone. “I know you know, Aurora,” she said.

“I have an educated guess.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath, twisting a piece of hair around her finger. “How much?”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“How much did he donate? Was it a lot? It must have been a lot, right? If they can afford to keep the house open and keep the kids there.”  
  
“You know a lot about how these houses are run,” Aurora said and Emma bit her tongue to stop the immediate retort sitting on the tip.

“Yup,” she said. “How much?”  
  
“Enough.”  
  
“That’s not a number.”  
  
Aurora muttered under her breath. “Somewhere in the realm of 40. Ish.”  
  
“Ish?”  
  
“Emma, I don’t have an exact number,” Aurora snapped. “I thought you’d be happier about this. This is a ridiculously good thing you’ve done.”  
  
She was right. Of course she was right.

And Emma was happy. The kids could stay and the house would stay open and Henry would still get adopted – all because of a whim and a pick and her own ridiculous determination that one kid didn’t get overlooked on his GD day.

And Killian had shown up then too.

She wasn’t mad. She was happy. She was, decidedly, overwhelmed.

God, she hoped they clinched.

“It is a good thing,” Emma said. Mary Margaret was standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised and she kept nodding towards the room and the increasingly restless and unentertained fans a few feet away. “Listen, Aurora, I’ve got to go. But, uh, thank you. For letting me know. Can I tell Henry? He’ll be psyched for the other kids.”  
  
“That’s why I figured you’d want to know.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Aurora’s voice wasn’t quite as sharp when she answered. “You’ve done a good thing here, Emma. Really.”

“Everything ok?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Yeah,” Emma answered, the ease of it surprising her. “Better, actually. They’re not going to close Henry’s house.”

“What? For real?”  
  
“That’s what I said.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Emma tugged her hair again and Mary Margaret’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “We raised enough money. You know with the charity game and the auction after and apparently a few extra donations.”

“Donations,” Mary Margaret repeated.

“A few. I guess.”  
  
“That’s incredible, Emma.”

She wasn’t talking about the donations. Emma hummed noncommittally, glancing over Mary Margaret’s shoulder and maybe they should buy hotel worker guy some coffee or something. He looked very stressed out.

“We should probably get back in there,” Emma said, pushing out of the chair. “We’ve got merch to give away.”  
  
“Sure.”

They did give away mech and there was more cheering and yelling and whatever mess of thoughts had been taking up residence in the back corner of Emma’s brain had all but disappeared when the third period ended and they’d won.

 _They’d won_.

The crowd started chanting again and even Mary Margaret joined in and Emma smiled when she grabbed her phone again.

_The Boston Bruins are the oldest American NHL team in the league. You probably knew that. I can’t think of a fact. God, that’s lame. You had lighthouses and I can’t think of anything. I love you._

She hit send before she could rethink it or retype it and, well, it was all true.

The fans filed out and Emma hadn’t really expected a response – there was post-game and probably more post-game after that and they could film their fan videos here, had come up with some sort of separate _clinching_ schedule with Ruby hours before.

She kept smiling and _they’d clinched_ and it was all going according to a plan she’d only allowed herself to start to hope for, so, naturally, that particular bubble had to get popped.

“Oh my God, you’re her,” someone said, almost skidding to a stop as they moved out of the room. They reached forward and Emma took a step back instinctively. Mary Margaret moved again and if she wasn’t so confused, Emma would have probably appreciated it.

“What?” she asked, ignoring the noise her phone was making.

“You’re the girl. The one from _SI._ ”

“ _SI_ ?” Emma repeated. “Like _Sports Illustrated_ ?”  
  
“Well, whatever their fan thing is. Extra...something, whatever. And Reddit. They’ve been talking about you all game. It’s definitely you, you’ve got the same hair. Is it true, are you wearing laces?”  
  
“What?”  
  
The guy’s eyes darted down – he was wearing a Booth jersey – and he scoffed when he saw the laces wrapped around her wrist. “Oh man, you are. You know the internet hates you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He laughed, shrugging slightly like that was an answer and Emma’s mouth was hanging open. Her phone was still vibrating. “Yup,” the guy continued, popping the word on his lips. “I think the theme of the thread was distraction. Cap’s never played without Locksley. They’ve been on the same line forever.”  
  
She had an argument. She had a string of entirely inappropriate words and phrases and the anger flushed through her so quickly her whole body nearly started shaking with the force of it. That would have matched up with her phone.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret snapped. “Enough. Get out of here. Emma, answer your phone.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, anger mixed with something that felt a bit too familiar. She tried to push it away. It didn’t really work.

David was texting her – a whole string of messages in a row that got more and more desperate the longer she didn’t respond.

**_Clinched!_ **

**_You need to call me. I’m going cross-eyed with paperwork._ **

**_Why’d Arthur pull him? And third line? That seems kind of weird, right?_ **

**_Emma. Seriously. I know you have your phone._ **

**_Is this because of Mary Margaret? Trying to force me to work? It totally is isn’t it?_ **

**_Hey, so, uh, I don’t know how much time you’re spending on subReddits for this team, but maybe don’t read the game thread from tonight._ **

**_I mean it, Emma. Don’t read it_ ** **.**

She wasn’t sure she’d ever been on Reddit before, had never found any need to search the dark corners of the internet for fan’s thoughts on her team. Huh, that was new.

Her phone buzzed again.

**_You’re totally doing it, aren’t you?_ **

She was. It didn’t take long to find – one well-worded Google search and there she was, Emma Swan, villain of the New York Rangers.

It was all there, everything that guy had promised, laid out in front of her on one tiny phone screen. She read the word _distraction_ no less than six times in the first post.

They knew everything or, at least, thought they knew everything, a breakdown of her arrival in New York and where she’d come from and a few guesses as to when Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, had given her laces like that was some kind of _promise_ and reason to hate her completely.

Emma was still standing, albeit leaning up against the wall and she probably would have told herself that was cheating if she’d been able to actually form any words.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said again, hand stretching towards her slowly like she was kind of frightened animal or a particularly emotional fourth grader.

“It’s fine,” Emma said quickly.

**_Emma, I am going to drive to Boston in two seconds if you don’t answer me._ **

She sighed softly, but there was a smile tugging on the of her lips and she couldn’t quite ignore the feeling lingering in the back of her mind – certainty. Emma might need the wall a bit still, but she wasn’t running.

She didn’t want to.

_Stand down, Detective. I’m fine._

**_You totally looked didn’t, you?  
_ ** **_  
_ ** _I don’t know why you’re asking questions you don’t want the answer to._ _  
_ **_  
You want me to beat them up?_ **

_Who? The internet?  
_  
**The internet. Arthur for that piece of garbage move. Killian, if you want.**

Emma laughed and she took a step away from the wall. Mary Margaret still looked concerned.

 _While I appreciate the offer to defend my honor, I don’t think you can punch the entire internet. And this isn’t Killian’s fault_.

**_It’s not your fault either._ **

_I know that too._

She could practically see David nodding – lower lip probably sticking out and eyebrows lifted in surprise.

**_Good. Is Mary Margaret still with you?_ **

_All afternoon._

**_She wanted to help._ **

_She did. So did you. Thanks, Dad._

**_No matter what, kid._ **

_Call Reese’s. She’s been worried you’re going to make yourself go blind with all that paperwork._

Mary Margaret’s phone rang almost immediately and Emma was somewhere close to cackling at how quickly David followed instructions.

She was some kind of whirlwind of emotions as soon as Mary Margaret said _hey, babe_ on the other side of the room, eyes falling on her laces and how much she absolutely, positively, for certain did not feel inclined to run.

It was...exciting and a bit terrifying and they’d clinched another series.

“Reese’s,” Emma hissed, tapping impatiently on her shoulder. “Reese’s I’m leaving.”

Mary Margaret pushed her hand away, switching her phone to the other ear. “What? We’re staying here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back. I don’t know. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Down the block,” Emma said and the words were barely out of her mouth before she was out of the room and Mary Margaret was mumbling answers to David into the phone.

She wasn’t lying – it was actually down the block and Emma might have actually sprinted down the sidewalk. There wasn’t a plan, no schedule to stick to, nothing more than just some kind of desperate need to run _towards_ something instead of away from it.

She stopped in front of the media entrance to the Garden and it was already late enough that the guard was long gone. She tugged on the door – locked. Everything was probably locked. There probably wasn’t anyone there. It was probably just building ops and there was probably a Celtics game the next day.

Emma groaned, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. That’s what she got for doing things without a schedule.

“Swan?”  
  
In the grand scheme of whatever mess of emotions Emma was wading through that night, she’d been the least prepared for that one. It felt like...everything, all at once and then something that might have been _warm_ and it didn’t quite make sense.

She was also, apparently, an internet villain though, so, nothing made much sense in Boston.

“Hey,” Emma said, turning back around to find Killian in a league-mandated suit and a bag of equipment slung over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t somebody be carrying that for you?”  
  
“What are you doing here, Swan? Didn’t you have in-game?”  
  
“Yeah, during the game. That didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Emma blinked once. “Wait, yes, to what?”  
  
“Having somebody carry this for me,” Killian explained, nudging his shoulder up to prove his point. “It’s been a shitty series though. Figured I could manage to carry my own stuff. Take a walk. Or something. I didn’t really have a plan.”  
  
“Me either.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes and his hair hadn’t dried completely yet. “We’re doing this half-sentence thing, Swan.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”  
  
“And you never answered my question either.”  
  
“I don’t remember it.”  
  
“Really know how to make a guy feel important,” he mumbled, but his eyes brightened just a bit when he glanced up at her, all blue and meaningful and Emma bit her lip when his fingers brushed across her wrist.

“The internet thinks I’m the worst person in the world.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”

“The internet. Or Reddit. I don’t know. I only read that one thing.”  
  
“Why were you reading any of it?”  
  
“Why do you keep reading the tab stories?” Emma countered. “You keep leaving newspapers in my apartment. Ruby said I should consider using them as wallpaper.”  
  
“When was Ruby in your apartment?”  
  
“Yesterday before Reese’s got there.”  
  
“Wait, Mary Margaret is here? Is David here too?”  
  
“They don’t travel in a pair.”

Killian scoffed and his fingers had wrapped all the way around her wrist, thumb brushing across her laces. Emma didn’t think he realized he was doing it. “Yes, they do,” he said, leaning forward to kiss the top of her hair.

She might have melted. Or at least dissolved into some sort of human-emotional hybrid who had apparently grown enough in the last few months that she was not immediately terrified to be feeling every emotion in the world.

“Well, David’s not here. He had a ton of paperwork and Reese’s is on April break and she wanted to come and she’s having some sort of emotional breakdown about her wedding. This is a distraction she won't admit to.”  
  
“One that you’ve picked up on though.”  
  
“I’ve known Reese’s for a decade,” Emma shrugged.

Killian hummed, lips pressed together thoughtfully and Emma wished he’d kiss her again. Maybe she should just start kissing him. “You’re avoiding my question, you know,” he said and his voice felt like it lingered in every inch of her.

It was unnaturally quiet in front of the TD Garden media entrance. That was probably a sign. This was important – with a capital _I._  
  
“Well, you keep changing the subject,” Emma muttered. “This has been one heck of a conversation.”  
  
“I aim to give off some kind of lasting impression.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and he did something absolutely absurd and completely unfair with eyebrows as he moved his hand away from her wrist and onto her waist.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Emma said, dragging her heels on the sidewalk when he started to tug her closer to him. “Jeez, relax your feats of strength, Cap. There’s no one to impress here. Just me.”

Killian tilted his head and something flashed in his gaze that Emma didn’t entirely understand – something much bigger than this conversation should have held. She probably should have expected it.

“And what would you say, Swan,” he whispered, squeezing his hand meaningfully on her jersey. His jersey. She only ever wore his jersey. “If I told you that the only person I am interested in impressing is you?”  
  
Definitely melted. Here lies Emma Swan, former community relations, fan experiences and events manager for the New York Rangers. Melted into some kind of puddle of emotions as soon as Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, stared at her like she was the center of the goddamn universe.

His smile stuttered slightly, all nerves and caution and he probably thought he was _pushing_ again. Emma needed to get better at talking.

She pulled her hands up, palms flat on the front of his jacket and tried not to blink too much when she started talking again.

“Then,” she said slowly, doing her best not to stutter on those first few letters. “I would tell you that I am consistently impressed. No matter what.”  
  
“Even for a third-liner?”  
  
“That’s not going to last.”  
  
“Ah, you don’t know that, love. Arthur was very serious about it. Said I needed a wake-up call.”  
  
“That’s idiotic,” Emma said, half shouting the words and Killian’s smile widened slightly. “It is! As if you’re not worried enough already. He’s just trying to cover his own ass if this doesn’t…”

She cut herself off, but she’d said enough. She couldn’t talk before and, now, she’d talked too much. “If this doesn’t work,” Killian finished.

“There’s no reason to think it won’t. You guys beat the Penguins plenty of times this season.”  
  
“And lost.”  
  
“You can’t do that,” Emma reasoned. “If you do, you’ll go insane.”  
  
“I feel like I’m halfway there already. You know what my plus-minus rating was this series, Swan?”  
  
“That’s an antiquated statistic. None of those goals were explicitly your fault.”

“Pick a different stat then,” Killian argued and Emma knew he’d thought about every single one of them far more than he should have. “Neutral zone turnovers.”

“You’re pulling at straws, Cap.”  
  
“No I’m not. I’ve been playing like shit. The whole team knows it. The entire New York City media world knows it. You probably know it too.”  
  
“No,” Emma said, knocking her knuckles on his shirt like that would, somehow, get her point across. “Listen to me. It’s just a skid. It happens. You told me that in LA. That it had happened before and it would happen again. No one cares if you’re winning and you guys are winning. The only reason Arthur did this was to save his own ass and it was selfish and stupid and the fans nearly rioted when you didn’t come out with Locksley and Phillip.”  
  
Emma’s shoulders heaved slightly and she hadn’t really taken a breath during her mini-speech. The ends of Killian’s mouth quirked and he squeezed her hip again. “That was good, Swan,” he said. “I think you’re taking over from Mary Margaret.”  
  
“Shut up,” she muttered. “I’m being supportive.”  
  
“And I appreciate it, love. I got your text.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
There were those emotions again, lighting metaphorical fires in the pit of her stomach and sending chills down her spine and a whole slew of cliché nonsense Emma was certain didn’t exist before she got to New York.

And she’d never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

“He really didn’t tell you until today?” Emma asked. “When?”

Killian shook his head slowly. “No. Tell me about the internet.”  
  
“You didn’t answer my other question.”  
  
“It’s not important. Why were you trying to break into the Garden?”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to break in. I figured there’d still be people here. Are you really done with all your post stuff already?”  
  
“Yes, answer the question Swan.”

She grumbled, sticking the toe of her shoe into the sidewalk. It kind of hurt. There was a lesson there. “The in-game thread wasn’t happy about your move and they seem to be under some sort of impression it’s my fault.”  
  
“How do you even know who they are?”

“I mean we made Page Six that one time. And the guy said he recognized me from _Sports Illustrated_ , although I feel like Ruby would have mentioned that, so who knows what the hell he was talking about.”  
  
“You’ve lost me again.”  
  
“There was a guy. At my thing. He said he recognized me and that the internet thinks I’m some kind of distraction and they’re all mad about my laces.”  
  
Killian’s whole face shifted, anger settling into every corner and Emma kept her hand trained on the front of his jacket. “They know about your laces?”  
  
“We are absolutely horrible at under the radar.”

That seemed to help. Killian’s shoulders weren’t quite as straight, the tension easing out of his jaw slightly and there was _almost_ something that resembled a smile. “You’re not a distraction. At least not one the internet can blame for how shitty I’ve been playing.”  
  
“We have been over that. You’re not. There are other factors and....”

He kissed her before she started repeating herself again.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss a person should have after only recently trying to break into TD Garden. He’d dropped his bag at some point, the sound echoing in Emma’s ears for half a second before the only thing she could hear was her vaguely desperate attempts to keep breathing.

That jacket might have been the best thing he’d ever worn – collar serving as leverage and Emma was on her toes with Killian’s hands anchored on the small of her back and she wasn’t sure which one of them groaned when they moved, hips hitting hips and she had to grip the back of his neck so she didn’t fall over.

His hand traced up the line of her spine and there was probably something ironic about his fingers ghosting over his own name on her back, but Emma was far too focused on whatever he was doing with his tongue to be worried about _deeper meanings_.

“You’re very good at that,” she mumbled and he laughed softly against her lips.

“A glowing endorsement.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse kept pounding in her ears, a metronome that she felt like she could plan an entire _life_ to. Oh.

Emma blinked once and everything she was thinking was probably written on her face, Killian’s head tilting slightly when she tried to take a deep breath.

It was a strange realization to come to in the middle of the sidewalk in the middle of Boston, but Emma supposed nothing had gone quite the way she thought it would when it came to this and them and Killian Jones.

“You’re not a distraction,” Killian repeated. “I am...this is…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m here for you,” he said quickly. “And I want to be. Indefinitely. You aren’t a distraction, Swan. You’re a reason. For all of it.”  
  
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to force his words into the deep recesses of her brain, that dark, vaguely frustrated place where promises of _never_ and _no_ and _almost_ lingered. And she wasn’t sure how she knew it worked, just that it had, an answer for every single question and every single _what if_ she could come up with.

“When did you do it?” Emma asked and Killian jerked back slightly at the sudden change in her voice.

“Do what?”  
  
“Save the house.”  
  
His whole body sagged, tongue pressed into the side of his cheek. “How’d you find out?”  
  
“Aurora told me. Earlier.”  
  
“So it went through, then? We weren’t sure.”  
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah, called during the first period. Wait, we?”

The ends of his ears went red and he ran his hand through his hair, tugging on the back for half a moment before he looked back at her. “Well the three of us. Locksley and Scarlet and me. That was quick. I didn’t think it’d happen until after the conference, actually.”  
  
“Look who’s all confident now,” Emma laughed.

“Well, we did win, Swan.”  
  
“You’re still dodging questions.”  
  
“Just the one.”  
  
“Killian.”

He nodded, eyebrows lifted as he brushed his thumb across her jaw and that metronome in Emma’s ears picked up pace. “It was a joke,” he stared. “Or at least it was supposed to be. Locksley and Scarlet talking about how they were going to buy you some sort of gift for changing everything and making me want to stay in New York and less of a cynical ass.

But, uh, we talked about it a little bit more and we talked about the ever-expanding Mills-Locksley family and, well, it made sense. You know the game raised a ton of money.”  
  
“Yeah I did,” Emma said. “Not nearly enough to save a foster home though.”  
  
“So you had some help.” He took a step back and Emma tried not to sigh too loudly when his hand moved off her jersey. “It wasn’t much, really, when you split it three ways.”  
  
“They really did that?”  
  
“Enthusiastically.”  
  
“And it was your idea?”  
  
“I guess,” Killian shrugged. “It just made sense.”  
  
Emma looped her fingers through his belt, appreciating the almost-stunned expression on his face and realizing exactly what you wanted out of _everything_ in the middle of the sidewalk was _fun._ She was having fun.

“Thank you,” Emma said. There should have been more, more words or more sentiment and she’d decided in some kind of end-all way, but she was still God awful at talking.

“That’s not anything to thank me for, love,” Killian whispered, voice barely audible over the traffic and the collective sounds of downtown Boston. “I was reliably informed we’re some sort of team.”

She needed to add that to whatever list she was keeping of this moment. That part should be at the top of the list. “A good one, maybe,” Emma added.

“Series-clinching.”  
  
“A do-gooder tandem, saving New York City.”  
  
“Should we collectively tell the internet to shut up?” Killian asked and his hand was back and there was a smirk and that was just _cheating_.

“No,” she laughed. “I’ll survive. I’m not...it actually didn’t bother me. Much.”  
  
“Ah, well, I’ll take much when I can get it.”  
  
Emma ignored that. “Were you going to walk back to the hotel?”  
  
“It’s, literally, down the block, Swan. You walked here from the hotel.”  
  
“I wasn’t carrying an entire team’s equipment.”  
  
“Go ahead and talk about how strong I am, I can wait.”  
  
“Jeez,” Emma sighed and the smirk was on a completely different level now. It wasn’t fair. “Alright, Jones, come on.”

“You know Boston has one of the highest walking-populations in the entire country. Probably only second to New York.”  
  
“That’s a better fact than the lighthouse.”  
  
“No more lighthouse facts,” Killian laughed, arm finding its way around their shoulders when they turned back down the sidewalk. “Noted.”  
  
She didn’t check for any other stories again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama and feelings are kind of the name of the playoff-game heading forward. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's the absolute best. @laurenorder made this better. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	37. Chapter 37

It had been bad.

Boston had been good. Clinching had been great – despite the skid and how shitty Killian had been playing, even if no one was willing to actually say those words out loud. It had been good and great and Emam tried to break into the TD Garden to talk to him and that might have been the best part of Boston, the quiet admission that he’d absolutely been trying to impress her not quite as terrifying to say out loud as he’d expected it to be.

He wished she was in Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh had been bad. Really bad. Terribly bad. The kind of bad that took up four pages of _The Post_ sports section and warranted several horribly written headlines and Arthur broke _two_ whiteboards.

Two.

It was not exactly the ideal start to a conference finals – a lopsided 3-1 loss that wasn’t even as close as the score made it seem it was. The Pens scored twice in the first period and then again in the second and it had been over before the third even started, the entire Rangers roster trudging out of the visitors locker room with decidedly slouched shoulders.

Arthur yelled and paced and even pulled Jefferson within a few minutes left in the third when he nearly gave up a fourth goal – none of it worked. They lost. They lost badly. And they paid for it the next two days, skating from blue line to blue line as soon as that horrible whistle sounded, Arthur’s voice almost going hoarse the more he kept yelling.

Killian was exhausted. His legs hurt and his head hurt and he slept like garbage when Emma wasn’t there – bed too big and not quite comfortable and Robin absolutely snored, no matter how much he argued the point for the better part of the last six years.

He needed to score a goal. If he could just score a goal, it would be fine. They could get out of Pittsburgh with a split and he’d get back on the first line and the tabs would stop coming up with puns based off his name.

That was half the reason for his headache, Killian was convinced.

Or it might have been his phone – ringing loudly and obnoxiously, threatening to fall off the nightstand in between the  bed the hotel room provided.

“Tell Elsa I don’t care if she’s eighteen months pregnant, she’s messing up the routine again,” Robin muttered from the bathroom, not even bothering to leave the tiny room to start issuing commands.

“Yeah, I’m not going to say that,” Killian countered, grabbing the phone and swiping his thumb over the screen without even bothering to check and see if _was_ Elsa.

It absolutely was. He didn’t need to look.

They’d played horrible and the scoring skid was at seven games and he was still practicing with the third line. Killian was almost surprised it had taken her this long to call.

“I have some thoughts,” Elsa said as soon as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hey, El,” Killian laughed. “Nice to talk to you too.”  
  
“Shut up, KJ. There’s a list.”  
  
“About your thoughts?”

“Well I wanted to make sure they were organized and I didn’t miss anything when I called. That’s why it’s taken so long to call.”  
  
“I was curious about that.”  
  
“You know phones work both ways,” Elsa pointed out and there was an edge in her voice Killian didn’t entirely expect.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“How do you know something is going on?”  
  
“El.”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Killian resisted the urge to groan, brushing his hand across his face as he sat up a bit straighter in the not-quite-comfortable hotel room bed. Robin must have heard his frustration or had some sort of former-linemate sixth sense, because he was already leaning on the bathroom door, feet crossed at the ankle and something that almost looked like worry on his face.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Elsa continued and she was talking faster now, voice picking up until the words and the syllables were jumbled together. “Come on, I wrote this whole list out so there was a direction to the conversation. You’ve got stuff to do. I know you do. Oh shit, am I messing up game-day?”

Killian’s eyes darted up towards Robin – who must have supersonic hearing in addition to whatever sixth sense he was, apparently, harboring – and something clicked in the back of his mind.

Defensive not-quite-younger-brother mode activated.

“No one cares about game-day,” Killian said quickly. Elsa scoffed.

“I’m totally messing up game-day. Did I wake Locksley up again?”  
  
“No,” he promised and Robin hummed in agreement. “We’re actually almost behind schedule. Come on, El, you’ve never said the word shit in your life. What is going on?”  
  
She clicked her tongue and something sounded like it creaked behind her. “Arthur will scratch you if you’re late for morning skate.”  
  
“Mid-afternoon skate and if that was one of the supportive things on the list, you’ve kind of missed your mark.”  
  
“It wasn’t,” Elsa laughed, sounding as if she was breathing just a bit easier. The creaking was back. It sounded like springs. “You know if you stopped trying to stick-handle so much you’d probably stop turning the puck over. Pittsburgh’s defenders are way too good for that kind of nonsense.”

“That kind of nonsense,” Killian repeated slowly. Robin was almost hysterical, arm wrapped tightly around his stomach and the doorframe was more support to stay upright than anything else.

“Well, they are!”  
  
“You’re avoiding the conversation.”  
  
“I called you.”  
  
Killian sighed. “What is going on with you? And what is that noise in the background? Where’s Liam?”  
  
“That was just a lot of questions, KJ.”

“Elsa,” he said sharply and she gasped on the other end of the phone. Robin stopped laughing immediately. “What’s going on?”  
  
“The noise is the bed.”  
  
“You answered the easiest question,” Killian accused. “Why are you in bed? Shouldn’t you be at work? For, like, the next two weeks?”  
  
Elsa didn’t answer immediately and Killian was half out of the bed, ready to start pacing or maybe fly to Colorado before an eight o’clock puck drop that night.

“Yeah, well,” Elsa sighed. “Things change.”  
  
He sank back onto the edge of the bed, air rushing out of his lungs and worry taking its place, coursing through every single inch of him quickly and completely. Robin’s eyes were wide, toothbrush still barely held in his hand as he took a cautious step towards Killian.

“You called me, El,” Killian said, voice going softer again when he ran his hand through his hair. He needed to shower. They had a game-day schedule to stick to and mid-afternoon skate and Arthur would _absolutely_ scratch him if he showed up late.

That probably would have just sparked more of that _distraction_ talk on the internet. He kind of wanted to punch the entire internet.

“Listen, I need you to score a goal tonight,” Elsa muttered quickly, still ignoring the questions and the reason why she was sitting in a creaking bed.

Killian tried not to groan, squeezing his eyes closed as he tugged on the back of his hair with a bit more force than absolutely necessary.  
  
He knew.

“Bed rest, huh?” he mumbled and Elsa let out a watery laugh.

“How’d you do that?”

“That’s still not an answer, El.”

She groaned and it was almost _too_ easy to picture her sliding down an inordinate amount of pillows, hair falling over her shoulders with something that probably looked like a grimace on her face.

“Yesterday,” she grumbled. “There was a lot of medical stuff and Liam freaked and that’s not even remotely like him. He doesn’t freak out.”  
  
“Is he there now?”

“No.”

Killian’s heart fell into his stomach and he was, very suddenly, standing up, feet treading out a path in between the beds. “Where’d he go?”

“Stand down, KJ,” Elsa laughed. “He went to the store. With another list of demands and food-type needs.”  
  
“Jeez, El, you can’t just say stuff like that.”  
  
“I’m stuck in this bed for the foreseeable future, I’ve got to get my entertainment where I can.”  
  
“I thought there was a point to this conversation.”  
  
“Rude.”  
  
Robin was still leaning against the bathroom doorframe, a worried look on his face and they were absolutely going to be late. “It’s fine,” Killian mumbled, waving his hand towards Robin. “Honestly though, El, you’re really ok? You have a tendency to save these major conversations for game-day.”

“That was one time. And I didn’t even tell you everything then.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I’m fine,” she promised. “Frustrated and a little surprised that Liam was so certain bed rest for a few more weeks meant some sort of horrible thing by default, but I think that’s mostly because he’s so preoccupied with some guy who doesn’t know how to stick-handle.”  
  
“College kids acting up, huh?”  
  
“KJ! You did hit the post again last game. That’s something.”  
  
“It’s not a goal though. And it was the crossbar”

He had the argument memorized at this point – everything he’d come up with, all the reasons why this was, somehow, the _shittiest_ he’d ever played in his entire career and he should probably stop being such an ass.

Especially to Emma.

She’d called the night before – plans for another fan event in another restaurant and concerns about Soyer and how hard he’d been checking anyone wearing a Rangers jersey. He’d picked up two minutes for interference in the second, keeping Killian from moving in front of the net and he’d hit the crossbar.

Still no goal.

And he’d done his best to stay enthused, to listen to her promises that it would be _fine_ , but he couldn’t really do that with Robin snoring on the other side of the door and his legs were killing him and he’d been an ass.

“You should probably apologize,” Elsa said softly as the bed creaked again and Liam’s voice echoed on the the other end of the phone when he slammed the front door shut in Colorado.

“I’m sorry,” Killian muttered. “You guys are dealing with real things and you’ve got to tell me what the medical stuff was about and…”  
  
“Killian,” Elsa snapped.

He wasn’t quite prepared for that.

“I can’t believe you just thought I was telling you to apologize to me,” she continued and she wasn’t even trying to disguise her laughter.

“You got all _mom_ on me,” Killian argued. “I felt like I was about to get grounded.”  
  
“Just bumped to the fourth line,” Liam shouted, mumbling something that sounded a lot like _ice cream is in the freezer_.  
  
“Tell Emma you’re sorry for being a jerk and you’re just preoccupied with stick-handling because you’re worried about not being good enough and you love her a lot. Like an absurd amount.”  
  
He did.

He wished she was in Pittsburgh and curled up next to him and she’d been more supportive than he could have ever dreamed, more than he could have ever asked her to be, but Killian had never been quite so terrified of coming up short in his life.

“Mind reader,” he mumbled and Elsa laughed again, humming her thanks when, presumably, Liam just brought the ice cream out of the freezer.

“You’re almost painfully easy to predict at this point.”  
  
“Is that a compliment?”  
  
“Of course,” Elsa said easily. “And, to be fair, Emma absolutely knows too.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
Elsa made a noise that sounded like an agreement and Robin tapped his wrist meaningfully. He wasn’t wearing a watch. “Of course,” she said again. “She loves you as much as you love her. Did they send her to Pittsburgh?”  
  
“Nah, she’s relating to the hometown community.”  
  
“Ah, well you’ll be home later on tonight.”  
  
Killian nodded. He needed to score a goddamn goal. He needed to try and get some sleep. He’d get, at least, one of those things if he went home.

God, he wanted to go home.

He hoped Emma knew _that_ too.

“Call her after skate,” Elsa said quietly and they should put her on TV or something. She was very good knowing exactly what he was thinking. “That’s vaguely romantic.”  
  
“Vaguely.”  
  
“And I’m fine, by the way. Or will be. Once they let me stand up again.”  
  
“She’s allowed to stand up,” Liam added, voice muddled just a bit since he wasn’t actually talking into the phone. “She’s just encouraged to sit down for as long as possible.”  
  
“Why?” Killian asked. He needed to shower. He needed to get dressed. “El if you’re not going to tell me, let Liam on the phone and he’ll tell me.”  
  
“Ok, that’s just stupid,” Elsa said as Killian pushed by a visibly impatient Robin. “I can tell you myself. I did call you.”  
  
“You’re just proving my point.”  
  
“It’s really not a big deal. I just have to _rest_ and I guess trying to make sure my office doesn’t dissolve into chaos before the state dismisses for the summer and there are all these half-filled boxes and…”  
  
“And what?”  
  
“I really want you to score,” Elsa whispered. Killian nearly dropped the towel he’d just picked up.

“Ah, well, that makes two of us, El.”  
  
“You’re not the only one who’s worried.”  
  
Killian laughed softly and he should probably leave his phone on the nightstand before he actually got in the shower. “I know,” he muttered. “I appreciate that.”

“Good.”

“Don’t get out of bed, you understand?”  
  
“It’s just precautionary.”  
  
“So be cautious.”

“I hate you.”  
  
“No you don’t.”  
  
Elsa grumbled under her breath and Killian could hear Liam laughing softly, muttering that the _ice cream was going to melt_. “That’s true,” Elsa agreed softly.

“Go score a goal, little brother,” Liam shouted.

Arthur blew his whistle a questionable number of times during skate and Killian’s headache hadn’t entirely gone away by the time he was off the ice at Paints, sitting in front of his visitor’s locker and there wasn’t even any time to leave before they had to get ready for the game.

“Did they bring the food in yet?” Will asked and there was a hole in the bottom corner of his ancient team-branded t-shirt.

“What year is it?” Killian countered. “Where did you even find that shirt? And why do you still have it?”  
  
“Talkative today, aren’t we?”  
  
Robin groaned, rolling his eyes before staring expectantly. “What?” Killian asked.

“You call Emma yet?”

“He hasn’t called Emma yet,” Will shouted, looking like he was close to collapsing at the idea. “Are you kidding me, Cap?”  
  
“When have I had time?” Killian argued.

“Right now, obviously.”  
  
“You two are absolutely infuriating, you know that? And I’m going to if you’ll give me two seconds to get my phone.”  
  
“One,” Will started slowly, holding a finger in the air. Killian glared at him.

“Ass.”  
  
“Two.”  
  
“God, Scarlet, relax,” Killian hissed, nearly leaping towards his locker to grab his phone off the top shelf. He had ten minutes – and Emma had even less than ten minutes before she needed to get on a downtown one train.

“I just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Will licked his lips and his shoulders seemed to reset with a determination that didn’t quite belong in this conversation. “Don’t screw this up because you’re worried about a scoring skid. You’re disgustingly happy. This is just a game.”  
  
Killian blinked once, mouth hanging open as he tried to remember that was _Will Scarlet_ standing in front of him. Maybe this whole day had been some kind of weird pre-game dream.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, eyes darting towards Robin out of instinct.

“He called Belle his girlfriend before we left New York,” Robin explained. “Thinks it makes him some kind of romance expert now.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
Will kicked at Killian’s ankle, lips twisted in frustration. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “You guys are both assholes. I’m trying to do a good thing here. Supportive or something and you’re both dealing with your emotional ridiculousness and…”  
  
Killian stood up quickly, clapping his hand on Will’s shoulder and he nodded once. “Thanks, Scarlet.”  
  
“Move into her apartment too. You barely go to your place anymore.”

“Nah,” Robin countered. “Cap’s place is bigger. They’ve got to move in there.”  
  
“How could you possibly know how big Emma’s apartment is?” Killian asked.

Robin shrugged. “Lucas told A who told Gina who told me.”  
  
“This team is dumb.”  
  
“Score a goal and get back on the first line and maybe this team can win tonight.”  
  
“But no pressure or anything,” Will muttered.

Killian waved his hand in response, weaving through a crowd of teammates and coaches and pre-game press. He was a world away once he made it into the hallway, quiet and cooler and there was an open corner just begging to be used to call Emma.

She answered on the third ring.

And if he’d known exactly what Elsa was doing by the tone of her voice, then he could practically picture Emma standing in front of him, that tiny crease in between her eyebrows and her hair draped over one shoulder and her thumb hooked through the laces around her wrist.

“Hey,” she said a bit breathlessly, but he could _hear_ the smile in her tone. Thumb definitely hooked through the laces around her wrist. “Are you done with skate already?”  
  
“Yup. And pre-game media.”  
  
“Did you actually answer questions?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured,” Emma laughed, but it didn’t quite ring true. “You weren’t on the backpage today though. So that’s a step in the right direction.”  
  
“Scoring would be some kind of leap across the ice.”  
  
“Today. I know it.”

Killian hummed in the back of his throat and he hadn’t apologized yet. He should apologize. Or maybe just listen to the confidence in Emma’s voice for the next ten minutes.

“That sounds awful certain, Swan.”  
  
“You hit the crossbar last game, seems like this is all pretty inevitable.”  
  
“I don’t know if that’s how it works, love.”  
  
“Reese’s would tell you that you only have to _believe_ and anything is possible.”  
  
“I’m not a fourth grader.”  
  
“Something I’m constantly thankful for.”

Killian scoffed and he wasn’t sure when he’d slid down the wall, just that he was sitting on the floor, feet stretched out in front of him. “Hey,” he said softly. “If I tell you I miss you right now, would that be weird?”

She didn’t respond right away and Killian ran his hand through his hair. “No,” Emma answered after what felt like an eternity passed in the corner of the hallway. “It wouldn’t be weird. It’d almost be kind of nice.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. And maybe I kind of miss you too.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma promised. She took a deep breath before she continued. “The internet thinks I’m ruining your career.”

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t look at that stuff anymore.”  
  
“Yeah, we did.”  
  
“And you did?”  
  
“No, Ruby did. So did David and then he told Reese’s and I think Ariel heard about it from someone. Maybe Regina.”

“This is stupid.”  
  
“You kind of sound like a fourth grader now,” Emma laughed. It sounded more genuine that time.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”  
  
“Eh,” she sighed and she was probably shrugging now. “You’ve got a lot of things on your mind. I can understand why you’ve been stick-handling so much.”  
  
“Does everyone have an opinion on how much stick-handling I’ve been doing? You have to work to get around defenders.”  
  
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”  
  
Killian sighed and this apology wasn’t going the way he wanted it to at all. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “For this. And having things on my mind. And for whatever happened the other night.”  
  
“You were mad.”  
  
He could hear her breathing. She’d stopped walking and he still hadn’t gotten off the floor. “No,” Killian said, doing his best to put everything into one word and two letters. “This is...this isn’t about…”  
  
“Me?”  
  
This was, easily, the worst apology in the history of the world. And she’d put _everything_ and then some into her own two letters and one word.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed, Swan,” Killian said, rushing over the words he’d been considering since the first game in Boston and the start of the skid. She’d _believed_ , finally, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to consider what would happen if he didn’t live up to that belief.

“In what?” Emma asked.

“Me.”  
  
Emma laughed. He hadn’t planned on that. “Oh my God, we’re the dumbest people in the world,” she mumbled.

“Wait, what?”  
  
“I thought...after deadline day and then TV...You gave up all of that. What if it wasn’t enough?”  
  
He took a deep breath and traced his thumb over one of the more twisted scars on the back of his left hand. “No,” Killian said. “I never thought that. Not once.”  
  
“Then that goes both ways. Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” he repeated, but he was smiling too. “You were right about being the dumbest people in the world.”  
  
“Did you talk to Elsa?”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
Emma hummed and he could hear her walking again, swinging open a door and Merida was already shouting at someone about the setup of _game-used merch_. “Yeah,” Emma said. “Or at least texted.”  
  
Killian’s smile was threatening to take up most of his face and God help him if he didn’t score that night. He’d probably combust from the after-effects of feeling every emotion a human could possibly feel.

“Is that ok?” Emma continued. “I think she’s already kind of bored.”  
  
“Oh, she’s definitely more than bored already. You’d appreciate the lists she’s making though. She had one for our conversation. That was new.”  
  
“Did you hit every one of her points?”  
  
“I don’t see how we couldn’t have.”

Emma laughed softly, answering Merida’s mumbled question. “She’s worried about you, too.”  
  
“Too?”  
  
“Obviously. Again.” She sighed and her hair brushed over the side of the phone, the noise finding its way into the pit of his stomach and maybe several major arteries. “I just, well, I miss you and your bed is comfortable.”  
  
“Are you using me for my bed, Swan?” Killian laughed, nodding in Robin’s direction when he appeared in the hallway and starting tapping on another imaginary watch. “And yours isn’t all that bad.”  
  
“Not bad isn’t comfortable.”  
  
“Ah, well, you’re there so…”  
  
Emma laughed loudly and he could see it – eyes a bit brighter than normal and the ends of mouth ticked up and he’d probably kiss her if she was in Pittsburgh. Score a goal. Get home. Kiss his girlfriend.

“Oof, really gunning for the compliments, aren’t you Cap?” Emma asked.

“Nah, just honest.”  
  
She took a deep breath and someone was asking about menus and food options and where to put game-used gloves. “On the table,” Emma answered distractedly. “That’s the point of the table.”  
  
“Maybe they should be calling you Cap,” Killian muttered. “Throwing out orders like that. Are they not following your plan, Swan?”

“Making fun doesn’t seem like it’d be in your best interest right now, Jones. Don’t smirk either. I know you’re totally smirking wherever you are.”  
  
“In the corner of the hallway outside the locker room.”  
  
“Yeah, well, stop smirking at air. Why would we put a table out if we weren’t going to put the gloves on the table?”  
  
“Game-used gloves, no less.”

“Jones.”  
  
“Yes, love.”  
  
“Don’t do that,” she sighed, but there was still a smile on her face, he was certain of it.

“Do what?”  
  
“Try and charm me.”  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly and Robin had never actually gone back into the locker room. “Good,” he said. “And your in-game is going to be fantastic.”  
  
“An outstanding amount of faith.”  
  
“What did you say before? That goes both ways.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma said and there was a note of wonder in her voice that, eventually, Killian was going to make sure didn’t show up again. “You’re going to be careful tonight, right?”  
  
“Careful?”  
  
“With Soyer. He’ll probably try and take you out at the ankles.”  
  
“Probably,” Killian admitted, not able to come up with an argument that didn’t sound like the complete lie it would have been. “Might be different if we win though.”  
  
“Or if you score right in front of him.”  
  
“He’s not the goalie, Swan. Or even a defender.”  
  
“Well, make sure he’s on the ice when you score.”  
  
“When?”

“When,” Emma repeated. “Tell me a fact.”  
  
He still hadn’t stopped smiling. “The very first BINGO game was played in Pittsburgh. Invented by Hugh J. Ward.”

“That’s a good fact.”

“Your move, Swan.”

She made a noise and clicked her tongue and maybe he’d just smile at Soyer and that’d be enough to make sure he didn’t spend the entire game dealing with checks or attacks on his ankles. “The Penguins almost went bankrupt in 1975,” Emma said. “A group of investors kept the team running. It was the same group that helped Bobby Orr get to Boston.”  
  
“We already beat Boston.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Timely fact,” Killian murmured, pushing back up and Robin was making some kind of impossibly impatient noise a few feet away. He kept mouthing the words _get dressed_ at him.

“Yeah, I thought so. Is Robin yelling at you to get dressed yet?”  
  
“Currently. How’d you know that?”  
  
“I’m very impressive. And I know how hockey works.”

He walked back into the locker room and there were a dozen reporters in front of him immediately, recorders held out and expectant looks on their faces and every single one of them wanted to know who he was on the phone with.

“Go,” Emma said. “And stop stick-handling so much in the zone. And I love you.”  
  
Killian heard a shutter go off somewhere and Robin was actually pushing him back towards his locker, trying to get him past the horde of media still desperate to know who was on the other end of this conversation. “I love you too, Swan,” he said and the horde nearly exploded in front of him.

She hung up and Killian pushed his phone back into his pocket, glancing up at the crowd in front of him. “If I see the word _distraction_ in any of your stories, none of you are ever getting a single quote out of me again, got it?”

No one answered, but Robin might have doubled over with laughter and Will actually fist pumped from his locker.

It took a full minute for the first hit.

That was longer than Killian expected. It did, however, land just above his ankles and Elsa was probably laughing about that in bed in the middle of Colorado with whatever ice cream Liam had bought her.

“Fucking a,” Killian mumbled under his breath, kicking back at Soyer’s stick as discreetly as he possibly could. He didn’t need an interference penalty on his first shift.

Arthur would probably smash the white board above his head if he did that.

Soyer laughed – just loud enough that Killian could hear it over the dull roar of the Paints and the asshole was absolutely smiling. “Welcome back down to the third line, Jones,” he shouted, pushing off the fronts of his skates when the puck moved down the ice.

Killian rolled his eyes. He needed to hit something.

He needed to score a goddamn goal.

“You know,” Soyer continued, “I’ve been reading some very interesting things about you and your future in this game.”  
  
“Shut up and play,” Killian hissed, knocking his shoulder against Soyer’s as he tried to work the puck off the boards and not having Locksley just a few feet away from him was messing with his head. There wasn’t anyone to just dump off to.

These new line guys couldn’t simply read his mind.

“I am,” Soyer laughed. “The question for you, though, is whether or not you’ll get to keep doing that once this series is over. Looks like both Jones brothers are going to come up short, huh?”  
  
“You’ve got to come up with new insults.”  
  
“Ah that’s easy. Bad skating, imminent failure, never winning a Cup. Oh and let’s not forget the girlfriend. Distracting, huh?”  
  
Killian’s whole body went tense and Soyer laughed under his breath, under some sort of impression that any of that had actually _worked_ , and he’d been counting on that. It gave Killian half a moment to maneuver his stick and kick at the puck and it was on his blade a second later, the set-up to the other winger in front of him as easy as anything he’d ever done in skates.

The goal light went off and the roar of the crowd was, suddenly, a very loud groan and Killian grinned at Soyer as soon as he stood up straight.

“Shut up,” Killian said again, leaving Soyer up against the boards as he skated back towards the bench.

There were murmurs of _nice pass_ , but Scarlet and Locksley both looked worried and Phillip was somewhere in the realm of murderous, sitting in between the two of them with what almost appeared to be actual steam working its way out of his ears.

“It’s fine,” Killian said. “Score more goals.”  
  
All three of them nodded once as they swung their legs over the boards and moved onto the ice and it was an easy enough plan, but the Penguins didn’t seem very interested in letting them go through with it.

Two periods later and they were losing – again – down a goal with some sort of historic shot-differential. At least that’s what Arthur said during intermission. Killian wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t very good though and Jefferson looked like he was going to stage some kind of goalie-based mutiny on his back line, grumbling complaints about _blocking shots_ and _staying in front of them_ as soon as he sank down in front of his locker.

And Soyer wouldn’t shut up.

Every time Killian came on for a shift, there he was, trailing after him with his mouth moving constantly and the word _distraction_ seemed etched onto his lips.

“You can’t fight him,” Robin muttered as they made their way through the hallway and back onto the ice.

“What?” Killian asked distractedly and Will groaned behind him.

“Don’t do it. I know you want to. And I know he’s chirping in your ear, but it’s not worth it. That’s all he’s trying to do.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
He did. He knew it as well as he’d known it every time they played the Penguins and he had no intention of actually dropping gloves at any point in this game.

That wouldn’t get him back on his line.

That wouldn’t score a goal.

“I’m going to do it anyway,” Will said easily, brushing past Killian as he moved onto the ice. Killian felt his jaw drop open – or as open as it could have been with a chin strap hooked around his jaw – and Robin stared meaningfully at him.

“Is he serious?” Killian asked. “They’re not even on the same line.”  
  
Robin shrugged. “Trust me. He’s going to figure it out somehow. I think he’s more upset about this than you are, actually.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
  
“He likes Emma.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
The fans were yelling again and he had twenty minutes to figure out how to put the puck in the back of the net and, maybe, watch his teammate defend his girlfriend’s honor. And win. Winning would be good too.

“Of course not,” Robin said, sounding surprised Killian had asked such a ridiculous question. “And he was right before. This is just a game. The rest of it, distraction or otherwise, is the important stuff.”  
  
“That was almost profound, Locksley.”  
  
“Well, I got two kids at home now. I’ve got to at least make it seem like I’m remotely knowledgeable.”  
  
Killian laughed and Robin nodded once before skating back to the faceoff circle and a game that, maybe, wasn’t the center of absolutely everything.

It only took a few minutes and there were gloves on the ice and sticks on the ice and Will’s fist colliding with the side of Soyer’s face. There was blood too – a trail of it down Soyer’s cheek and Will’s jaw looked like it had been smashed in half, but he was laughing when they pushed him towards the penalty box, shouting something at Soyer over his shoulder.

And for half the period, Killian was certain it worked. They survived four-on-four and Arthur didn’t look like he wanted to kill half his roster anymore, aggressive on the forecheck and pushing the puck into the Pittsburgh zone.

The arena wasn’t loud either, every hit sounded a bit louder than it should have and it felt like they were skating on actual ice, waiting for a crack in the plane or some sign that, maybe, they were going to fall under the water.

It came with 9:38 left in the third.

They were pushing into the zone, _again_ , puck on Phillip’s stick and he’d already beaten Soyer across the blue line, half a step away from passing to Killian in front of the net.

It felt like it happened in slow motion. Soyer lifted his stick and it was a slash –  two minutes _at least_ – and Phillip’s cry would probably echo in that very quiet arena for the rest of the night.

They blew the whistle immediately and Phillip ripped off his glove, flecks of blood falling onto the ice. Killian’s stomach clenched.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, skating forward before he could stop himself and Phillip didn’t look quite as certain on his skates anymore.

Everyone moved and the arena was, suddenly, so loud it felt like the foundations were shaking, the back of Phillip’s hand covered in red. Soyer laughed.

“Get him off the ice,” Arthur shouted from the bench. Phillip was trying to go after Soyer a string of profanities falling out of his mouth as quickly and easily at the blood that was threatening to stain the sleeve of his jersey.

The entire Rangers bench was screaming, leaning over the boards with sticks on the ice and cries for a penalty and no one listened to any of them. Soyer kept laughing. Phillip could barely move.

“That’s a goddamn slash,” Will yelled, slamming his stick against the boards until there was a crack running down the middle. “That asshole took off half his finger.”  
  
He wasn’t wrong.

Killian chanced a glance back down, arm supporting most of Phillip’s weight as he pushed him towards an expectant Victor. Phillip tried to pull away from him, something about being _fine_ , but Killian shook his head.

“Rook, stop moving,” he muttered and Victor let out a low whistle when he saw just how right Will had been. The top of his finger was gone.

“Fuck,” Victor mumbled. “Come on, Rook. You’re done for the night.”

“What?” Phillip yelled. “No, come on, I’m fine. Tell him, Cap. I’m totally fine. We’re only down one. I’ve got to get out there for the power play.”  
  
“There’s no power play,” Killian said and Phillip’s face was nearly as white as his away jersey. “Get off the ice, Rook.”

Phillip grumbled again, but his breath caught loudly when he looked back down at his hand. There was a ridiculous amount of blood.  
  
Killian hoped Roland didn’t see. He hoped Emma didn’t see.

It wasn’t the way he’d planned to get back on his own line, but Arthur nodded once and Robin smiled knowingly when he skated up on his side before the faceoff. “Score a goddamn goal,” Robin said.

He won the faceoff and Soyer didn’t get a penalty, but he didn’t switch lines either and Killian was fairly certain he was fueled almost entirely by anger at this point.

There was something to be said for that.

He didn’t have to stick-handle as much when he knew exactly where to be, far too aware of what Robin was going to do before he did it. A minute left and they’d pulled the goalie and he just _knew_ , as soon as he moved, eyes zeroing in on the puck and it wasn’t going to go in if he didn’t hit it.

He did.

He scored.

Killian felt hands on his back and Robin was yelling and Will must have sprinted down the ice, colliding onto his side and knocking him into the boards and the Pens fans behind them booed. It might have been the greatest sound he’d ever heard.

* * *

It was cold.

It shouldn’t have been. It was May. It should have been warmer. He should have brought a warmer coat. Or gone home. Or gone to Emma’s.

He hadn’t.

They’d lost.

Again.

Killian scored and tied the game and there was overtime and no less than five perfectly good scoring chances and they didn’t score on any of them. Arthur broke a stick.

Down two games and, somehow, being that close was worse than a blowout. The _almost_ of it all was going to kill him.

So Killian didn’t go home when they got back to the Garden, didn’t answer Elsa’s six different voicemails or Liam’s text messages and every time his phone buzzed he hoped it was Emma. It wasn’t.

She was busy. It couldn’t have been easy promoting a team that couldn’t win in Pittsburgh. Fuck. A two-game hole wasn’t easy to get out of.

They had to win at the Garden.

And Soyer was hysterical by the end of it all, shouting _distraction_ at him again as Killian walked down the tunnel towards the visitor’s locker room. He almost turned around and started fighting him right there.

He would have gotten fined for that.

The wind shifted again and the Chipotle had been closed when he’d gotten off the uptown one and he hadn’t even tried to find a place to get coffee.

He kind of wanted to be cold.

Melodramatic idiot.

“Killian?”

He spun around, the front of his jacket nearly getting caught on the bench he’d taken up residence at. She must have changed at some point – jeans and a leather jacket and that same Rangers hat she’d worn when they’d gone ice skating pulled low over her ears.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asked and he didn’t think he imagined the way she slowed down, cautious, measured steps like she was afraid moving too quickly would somehow scare him off.

“Me? What are _you_ doing here, Swan? How’d you even know I was here?”  
  
She licked her lips and scuffed the toe of her boot into the dirt, staring at her shoes when she answered. “El called me. Said you weren’t answering your phone.”  
  
“And she said I’d be up here?”  
  
“No,” Emma said, shaking her head. “I, uh, I remembered you mentioning coming up here. When you ran. It was a hunch.”  
  
He felt himself smiling before he could remember all the reasons he shouldn’t have been and Emma’s lip in between her teeth was a very specific type of distraction. “A good hunch,” he said softly. “Did you take the train up here?”  
  
“Car. And wandered around the block a few times trying to find the kind of bench a little kid would want to claim as his own.”  
  
He should have gone home as soon as he got off the bus. He should have called her the second he stepped off the ice.

“Were you?” she asked, mumbling the words together slightly.  
  
“Was I what?”  
  
“Running?”

Killian nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Emma still hadn’t moved. “Decidedly,” he admitted. “We lost again.”  
  
“That wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“Did you see what happened to Phillip?”

Emma let out a shaky breath and she tugged on the end of her hair, pulling it back over her shoulder. “I can’t believe he didn’t get a major for that. Is Phillip ok?”  
  
“No. They took him to a hospital and Red said ten stitches, at least. He’s going to miss the rest of the series. Probably more. If we get that far.”  
  
“Hey,” Emma said sharply and she took a step forward before stopping herself quickly. “Two games is nothing.”  
  
“Two games is everything, Swan.”  
  
“It was close.”  
  
Killian groaned, turning back towards the river and the park and he ran his hand through his hair. Emma’s boots moved and she sank onto the far end of the bench without a word. “Mrs. V would have a cliché about horseshoes and close only counting there.”  
  
“I think you got your point across.”  
  
He glanced to his left and she still had her lip between her teeth, eyes staring down at her lap and her hands and she kept tugging at her laces. Killian reached over and Emma gasped softly when he laced his fingers through hers, pulling her hands away from her wrist as he squeezed her hand tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“For?”  
  
“Running. And worrying. Non-stop. That’s been more distracting than anything else. I’m so certain I’m three quarters of the way to fucking all of this up, I can’t remember how to move around defenders without acting like I’m in some kind of skills competition.”

Emma laughed and he pulled his arm over her shoulders, tugging her against his side until it felt a bit easier to breathe again. “Ah, well, the internet stopped worrying about me tonight, apparently. They were more upset at Soyer for destroying Phillip’s hand.”

“Are you reading things on the internet again, Swan?”  
  
“No, David is. And defending my honor, apparently.”  
  
“Ah, well he’s not the only one.” Emma quirked one eyebrow and Killian appreciated the noise she made when he kissed her, lips brushing across hers. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “It wasn’t me, actually. I’m not the one who got a misconduct.”

“Scarlet?”  
  
Killian hummed in agreement. “You’re apparently a team favorite, love.”  
  
“But he doesn’t like me.”  
  
“He does,” Killian argued. “And he knows, well, he knows how important you are. Soyer wouldn’t shut up about it.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to figure out exactly what to say next. “Distraction,” she mumbled.

“No, not that. The opposite.”  
  
“What’s the opposite of a distraction?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Everything else,” he said and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t an actual explanation, wasn’t the detailed list of all the ways Emma Swan had changed everything or even the conversation schedule he’d half come up with on the plane home, but maybe it didn’t have to be.

“If that was an attempt to charm me, it might have worked.”  
  
“Might have?” Emma rolled her eyes, but she shifted against him and he could feel her whole body move when she took a deep breath.  
  
“And it wasn’t really trying to charm if I was just being honest.”

“That’s being charming again. That’s cheating.”  
  
“Well, we are two games down.” Emma tensed and Killian tried not to sigh too loudly. “You know,” he continued softly. “When we were kids, Liam and I used to come over here. Get out of the apartment and no one ever really questioned it. We used to play baseball. We had one glove and we’d switch who got to use it and who went home with slightly bruised hands.”  
  
He laughed softly, eyes closed as he pictured them there – trying to avoid hitting tourists and people just trying to get to work and he couldn’t remember what happened to that glove. Probably lost when they moved.

Emma tugged on the front of his tie and Killian glanced down to find her staring at him expectantly. “No one ever questioned it? You must have been young, right?”  
  
“Six or seven. There wasn’t really anyone around to care.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma mumbled and she kept her head on his shoulder. “But then hockey cared?”  
  
“Can a sport care about you?”  
  
“In my experience a sport can change everything.”  
  
Killian trailed his fingers over the curve of her elbow and there was something unquestionable in the tone of her voice. “I wanted to win for me. For as long as I can remember. To be something and do something and I didn’t even mind the horrible headlines in the tab. I wanted them. They meant I was doing something right. And then everything happened with Liam and Milah and the _only_ thing I had was winning. But we didn’t. We kept losing and coming up short and nothing was ever quite enough.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“And now I don’t just want to win for me or even for a contract. I want to win for everyone else, for this team and Locksley and Scarlet and Phillip and, God, even Arthur. But, well, I wasn’t lying in Boston, love. I want to win for you. I want…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian clicked his tongue – he hadn’t meant to talk for so long. But Emma had figured out where he went and maybe talking wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“I’ve always had hockey, Swan,” he started. “And I might not anymore. And that’s ok. Really. But the idea of not having hockey and then not having you is enough to fall into the realm of distraction.”  
  
Emma sat up straight, eyebrows low and mouth hanging open. She stared at him like she couldn’t quite believe what he’d just said. “You really think that’s why I’m here?”  
  
“Well, no, not completely, but…”  
  
“There’s no but to that sentence,” she said, cutting him off and pressing her palm flat against the front of his jacket. “I never cared about hockey. At least not when it came to defining you or this. I am here because of _you_ and only because of that. You’re going to win. I know it. But even if you didn’t, even if you got swept this series and Arthur scratched you, I wouldn’t care. I love you. You. Not the hockey player.”

He kissed her and he might have muttered _I love you_ before his lips hit hers, but the movement was so instant and so _obvious_ , that Killian couldn’t really consider anything that wasn’t the feel of Emma against him.

“It’s really cold out here,” she said. He’d lost track of time completely. It was freezing and late and impossibly dark on 110th Street.

“Something about the river, probably. Or the water.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“I’ll take you home, Swan.”  
  
He stood up and Emma didn’t blink before taking his hand and pulling herself back up against his side. “If you think I came all the way up here not to take you back to my apartment then you’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
“That seems fair,” Killian laughed and he kissed her again when they got into the backseat of the cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsa knows everything. That should be the moral of the story. And Arthur is losing his coaching-mind a little bit, which is why he moved Killian in the first place. He's really not being a jerk, just trying to get his best player to play like his best player. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you guys enough for your response to this story. It blows my mind. @laurenorder fixes all my words and makes them better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	38. Chapter 38

“You have to get up,” Emma mumbled, kicking back slightly.

“Nope,” Killian argued. “I’m not going.”  
  
“You have to go. They’ll fine you otherwise. I can’t believe you guys didn’t leave yesterday, actually.”  
  
“Trying to get rid of me, Swan?”

His arm tightened around her waist and his bed really was way more comfortable than hers, but he had to leave early and she needed to stay in the city and there’d been some sort of unspoken agreement about coming back to her apartment this series.

It was definitely athletic-based superstition.

They won after Emma found him on 110th, a shutout on Garden ice and Killian had star’ed and Soyer got dropped down to the fourth line, only a few minutes and a handful of shifts. Roland was the first one to point it out, shouting about ice time and Killian scoring in back-to-back games as soon as they’d shown up at the restaurant after post.

So they just kept doing it.

And Killian’s bed was comfortable, but Emma would have been lying if she didn’t get some sort of _something_ whenever she woke up next to him in her own space.

She was probably growing as a person or something.

“The opposite,” Emma mumbled, realizing rather belatedly she hadn’t actually answered the question. “Did we not prove that already?”  
  
They’d left the restaurant early – or earlier than they probably should have if they were still trying to do anything even remotely resembling under the radar. They weren’t. They’d made Page Six again that week.

Ruby tried to hide it. Elsa e-mailed her the link.

And it almost didn’t matter – Emma hadn’t checked any subReddit's in _days_ – but it hadn’t been an easy series, losing the second game at the Garden and Arthur’s post-game presser afterwards had reached some kind of viral sensation status.  

So as soon as they’d forced a Game Seven and they didn’t leave for Pittsburgh right away, there were a few glances and a few more hands lingering on her back and the curve of Emma’s neck and they left before finishing a full plate of onion rings.

“I’m not opposed to some sort of repeat performance,” Killian said and Emma swore she could _feel_ every single letter.

That might have just been his hand.

“Some sort of repeat performance,” Emma repeated slowly, raising her eyebrows and that kind of smirk on his face should be illegal at whatever godforsaken time it was that morning. It was definitely early.

“Was that not what you were implying?”  
  
“You’re taking all the romance out of this.”  
  
The smirk got bigger. Ass. “Swan are you implying that you’re trying to woo me? I’ve got a game to focus on.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s fine then,” she sighed and she couldn’t quite stop the _yelp_ she let out when he grabbed her as soon as she tried to start moving. “Jeez, you’re going to break one of my bones.”  
  
He almost looked affronted, but the smirk was still there and still stupid and, well, she couldn’t really tease when neither one of them was actually wearing clothes.

“I would never let any of your bones break,” Killian said. She wasn’t quite prepared to dive into the deep end of serious, but his voice was even and intent and he didn’t blink when he stared at her, hand feeling unnaturally heavy on her hip.

“No?” Emma asked and he shook his head before the word was even out of her mouth.

“No,” he said again. _God_ , his eyes were blue.

“That’s cheating,” she accused, twisting around so the sheets were wrapped around her and in between them and maybe they were going to break one of _his_ bones because there was no way his wrist was actually supposed to bend like that.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Swan.”

“You’re doing that thing with your eyes.”  
  
“Looking at you?”  
  
“Yeah,” she mumbled and he was absolutely laughing at her, fingers still trailing over her hip. That was cheating too. “Exactly that.”  
  
“I could not look at you.”  
  
“That would mean you’d have to actually get out of this bed and get on a flight for Pittsburgh.”

“It barely counts as a flight. And they should have let you go too.”

Emma scrunched her nose. She hadn’t travelled at all this series, some reason from Zelena that almost made sense about setting up fan events across the city and _Rangerstown is in New York, Emma, that’s just the way it works_ and, well, it did almost make sense.

It didn’t make it any less frustrating to not be at games and she wished she’d been in Pittsburgh when they’d won Game Five if only to see the look on Soyer’s face when she walked through the hallways of the Paints.

“I’ve got that thing in Bryant Park tomorrow,” Emma said. They’d been over this, the plans and the blur of a few hours that had mostly just been signing forms and getting that band from opening night back and if it rained, Emma was going to lose her mind.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Killian sighed. She tried not to groan when he moved his hand, pulling it away from her hip to run over the front of his face. “I’d just rather you were there.”  
  
“You know that sounds decidedly clingy, Captain.”

Killian laughed, pulling the sheets away from her to tug Emma back up against his side. They probably should have put more clothes on at some point. The lack of any sort of cotton-based barrier made it very difficult to remember all the reasons he needed to get out of her bed.

“Yeah, it might be,” he agreed. “Or it could also be decidedly romantic.”  
  
“Which one do you think it is?”  
  
“Well, you’ve already accused me of cheating and staring and now clingy so I’m not sure we’re really moving in any sort of romantic-type direction.”

“I never once said _staring_ ,” Emma argued, nearly jumping up when she moved to knock her knuckles against his chest. “I said you were looking at me.”

“And that’s cheating somehow?”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes as soon as he started smiling at her. “A distraction,” she muttered, pushing her fingers into his hair and she didn’t remember moving until she was practically on top of him, legs on either side of his hips.

“That word, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, well this time it isn’t coming from the internet. And you are...” She waved her hand through the air, not entirely certain what she was trying to point out. It seemed kind of silly to actually say the words _ridiculously good looking_ when she was practically straddling him.

“You ever going to finish that thought?” Killian asked, fingers tracing up her side until Emma’s breath caught in her throat and he lifted his eyebrows.

“Figure it out.”  
  
“I’d much rather hear you say it though.”  
  
“You’re very frustrating, you know that?”  
  
Killian hummed, lips pressed together like this was an even remotely serious conversation. “And apparently a distraction. Correct me if I’m wrong, love, but I don’t think you’re the one with a flight to catch.”  
  
“Just a million and two forms to sign,” she said and the words weren’t quite as even as his were. That was probably because he wasn’t trying to focus on letters and coherency with a hand in between his legs and Emma was having a hard time not simply collapsing on top of him. He’d planned on that – of course.

That smirk was stupid.

“Ah, you’ll figure it out, Swan,” Killian said and the idea of doubting him was as stupid as that smirk that wouldn’t leave his face. “You have all season.”  
  
“This is bigger than that, though. What if it rains?”  
  
“People will get rained on.”  
  
“They won’t like it.”

“They won’t care if we win.” Killian chuckled under his breath and she’d stopped even trying to sit up straight anymore, hand pressed flat on the tiny bit of mattress by his shoulder as she started trailing kisses along the curve of his jaw.

He stopped laughing almost immediately, shoulders rolling back into the pillows and maybe Emma _was_ a distraction. “We don’t have time for this,” she whispered, but she’d closed her eyes when his hand moved again and she hadn’t actually stopped kissing him yet.

“I don’t care.”  
  
“You have to go win a game.”  
  
“You don’t know that’ll happen, love,” he said softly and Emma pulled her head up to meet his gaze. He looked as nervous as he sounded, that moment on a park bench uptown echoing in her memory and they _had_ to win.

This had to work.

“Yes, I do,” Emma promised.

“That’s quite a lot of faith you’re putting in me, Swan,” Killian said. His voice kept shaking. He didn’t look away from her.

“I know. But there’s a reason for it.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Emma nodded, thumb brushing across his face and he desperately needed to shave. He couldn’t shave. Bad luck and sports-based superstitions and it scratched against her cheek when he kissed her.

She liked it.

“Because this is going to work,” Emma continued, not entirely certain she was actually proving her point. Her mind was a convoluted mess of belief and certainty and she hadn’t been ready for any of it, hadn’t been entirely prepared to find Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, sitting on a bench on 110th Street, but if anyone was going to believe in him then she was going to make sure it was her.

“You’re sure of that?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah. I am.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’m choosing to see the best in you,” Emma answered. “And that’s not the face of the franchise or even that enormous cardboard cutout they’re going to put in front of the fountain in Bryant Park. That’s everything else. That’s saving my events and Henry’s house and did you know you lift Roland up every single time you see him?”  
  
Killian quirked one eyebrow and his eyes flashed up towards her, something she could only define as _want_ flickering in his gaze. “I hadn’t,” he said softly. “Just instinct. Or something.”  
  
“Exactly.”

He tugged her down back towards him, hand pushed into her hair and around the back of her head and it was slow and meaningful and he kissed her like they’d already won Game Seven. He kissed her like he believed her.

“Did you say something about a cardboard cutout,” Killian mumbled. She hadn’t moved yet, could feel his lips move against hers when he spoke and Ruby would probably notice the red on Emma’s cheeks from the playoff beard that afternoon.

Absolutely horrible at under the radar.

“I did,” Emma laughed. “They’re going to put them out so people can pose with them.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“It’s almost cute.”  
  
“What happens with them when you’re done with your event?”  
  
“Well, we’ll probably use them for the Cup Finals.”

“If.”  
  
“When.”  
  
Killian smiled at her, right hand toying with the ends of her hair while his left kept tracing up the line of her spine. “You could keep it here,” he suggested, widening his eyes when he moved again and Emma had to bite her lip so she didn’t actually groan at the feel of him against her.

They didn’t have time for this.

She didn’t care.

“Here?” Emma repeated and breathing was absolutely overrated, an unnecessary requirement that she couldn’t bring herself to be concerned with when Killian’s hips moved again.

“Well, where else would you put it? Insert something about how you can have me around all the time or whatever.”  
  
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s quite the same,” she stuttered. Her head bounced on one of the few pillows she’d actually bought in the last two months and Killian was, somehow, above her, hips still moving and hands still moving and Emma’s whole body felt like it was on pins and needles.

It kind of felt like waiting for Game Seven.

It was, easily, the dumbest, most sentimental thing she’d ever thought in her life.

“Ah, that’s true,” Killian continued, muttering the words into her ear before trailing his lips across her neck and the hollow between her collarbones and every inch of her was probably going to be red by the time this was over.

He hissed in his breath when she wrapped her hand around him and maybe they were on more even footing than Emma had originally thought. They were, after all, still decidedly undressed.

“What are the rules about trimming this?” she asked, tapping one finger against his jaw.

“You don’t like it?” Killian laughed. “It’s good luck.”  
  
“I didn’t say that. It’s just long. And scratchy.”  
  
He should probably smile like that all the time, Emma thought. Ah, _that_ was the most sentimental thing she’d ever thought in her life.

She twisted her wrist and Killian squeezed his eyes closed, lips sinking into his lower lip and Emma felt something shoot through her that might have been want or need or maybe just a distinct amount of belief.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled.

“We’ve been over this. I don’t care.”  
  
Killian rolled his hips again – like that proved _that_ – and muttered something about _quick_ and it wasn’t exactly the most romantic thing he’d ever said, but it didn’t really matter.  
  
He groaned when his body met hers and Emma gripped his shoulders tightly, meeting him movement for movement and kiss for kiss and there wasn’t much finesse to any of it, but he kept mumbling words in her ears and her own name echoed in the room as soon as she shifted a very particular way.

And it was as fast as it had to be, and just a bit desperate, but so was a Game Seven, the inability to get out of that bed in the apartment she still couldn’t quite think of as _hers_ without him there, but it still didn’t matter.

She closed her eyes again, the sound of his _I love you, Swan_ lingering in the tiny bit of air between them and tried to remember every motivational-hope speech Mary Margaret had ever given, anything she’d ever believed in when she was a kid and getting shipped from house to house and state to state and she couldn’t.

She couldn’t remember believing in anything as much as this.

As much as him.

No, she corrected herself quickly, as much as them.

Sentimental fool.

“I love you too,” Emma whispered. “And I’m not bringing a cardboard cutout back here.”  
  
Killian laughed and the nerves weren’t quite as palpable anymore, eyes not leaving her face as he did his best not to crush her. “That’s fair.”

“I mean,” she continued, words falling out of her mouth without her explicit permission. “You’ll be here, right? That seems kind of better.”  
  
“Kind of?”  
  
“Well, I didn’t want to assume.”  
  
He bent his head and kissed her quickly, squeezing her hip. “I’ll be here, love.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“We’re going to win,” he said and Emma wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“I know you are. No jinx.”  
  
“No jinx,” Killian repeated, smile wide and eyes still on her face and she was probably blushing now in addition to whatever kind of red trail he’d left behind on her neck.

He blinked once and hooked one of his fingers through her laces, tugging lightly until she started to grumble about _ripping them_. “Although,” Killian added. “They are fairly well-rested now on the other side.”  
  
“Look who’s jinxing who now.”  
  
“I’m just saying. A five-game series in the west is a lot different than a seven-game series here in some sort of rivalry matchup.”

“Yeah, well that’s because LA doesn’t actually have any real rivals. Because they’re a dumb team in a dumb city with an ugly color scheme.”

Killian barked out a laugh and his lips ghosted over her temple as he kept his fingers trailing up her spine. “I don’t intend to let you down, Swan,” he said softly and Emma bit her tongue so she didn’t do something dumb like cry.

Or buy her own goddamn ticket to Pittsburgh.

“You won’t.”

The text message came four hours after he walked out her door and Mary Margaret asked why Emma was smiling like an idiot in the corner of her couch. She didn’t use those words. David did. Mary Margaret flicked her fingers on his shoulder.

**Made it to Pittsburgh. No turbulence. Scarlet yelled anyway. I love you, Swan. Your place tomorrow night, win or lose.**

* * *

It didn’t rain – which was good since they couldn’t actually bring tents into Bryant Park.

There were, however, a sea of fans and people and slightly confused tourists who couldn’t understand who these guys in uniform were.

“You’d think they’d never even heard of hockey before,” Emma grumbled, Merida on her heels with a clipboard and a schedule and they were both wearing headsets.

This event was questionably enormous.

She tried not to think of all the ways they’d have to, somehow, top this if they made it to the Finals. When. When they made it to the Finals.

“Well,” Merida reasoned and she was jogging now to try and keep up with Emma. “To be fair, some of them probably haven’t.”

“Yeah, but they’re not trying to bid on signed merch.”  
  
Merida shrugged. “They might.”  
  
“What time is it?” Emma asked, ignoring that particular brand of positivity completely. She didn’t have time to linger on the possibility of tourists bidding on a ridiculous amount of signed merch. That was another reason she was glad it didn’t rain. They didn’t have anything to cover the merch with.

God, this event was half a moment away from disaster.

“We’re fine, boss,” Merida promised, just barely avoiding Emma’s back when she stopped suddenly to find half of the cardboard cutouts knocked over in front of the fountain.

“God damnit,” she mumbled, grabbing the first one she could and putting it upright. “And that didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“We’ve got twenty minutes until puck drop.”  
  
“Ok,” Emma said, only turning around when a cardboard version of August Booth was standing back upright. “And the alums are here?”  
  
“Taking pictures with people who actually know what hockey is already.”  
  
“Good, that’s good.”  
  
“It’s going to be fine, boss.”  
  
“Sure it is,” Emma answered distractedly, spinning when she heard her name.

David was wearing a jersey and Mary Margaret actually had a hat on, the brim bent a little bit and her class had probably told her she had to wear it that way. Emma’s smile was instantaneous and Merida might have started to breathe a bit easier as soon as she stopped demanding updates on how much time they had left before puck drop.

“Hey,” Emma said, walking towards both of them. David looked like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and he laughed loudly when he noticed the cardboard cutouts. “You guys made it.”  
  
“Emma, you sent a car,” Mary Margaret said reasonably.

She had. An appropriate use of team resources. She didn’t really care. She wanted her friends there if this didn’t go the way she wanted it to.

Mary Margaret totally knew. It was probably why she’d worn the hat – to distract her or something. David would have been too busy screaming at the TV.

Or the giant movie-type screen thing they rented. It wasn’t really a TV.

“Anyway,” David said pointedly, nodding towards the admittedly loud crowd that was already scouting seats in front of the screen. “This is going to be awesome. God, how many permits did you have to fill out to get that thing in here?”  
  
“More than I knew existed,” Emma admitted, throwing a grateful smile Merida’s direction. “Did you guys honestly bring chairs?”

“Where else would we sit? On the grass?”

“I don’t know. I figured a blanket.”

“We brought that too,” Mary Margaret said and Emma hadn’t noticed the folded up patchwork tucked underneath her arm. “You know, just in case you had two seconds to sit down.”  
  
“You were going to make me sit on the blanket while you guys got chairs?” Emma laughed. “I’m not actually your kid.”  
  
“We only had so many chairs, Emma,” David said quickly, brushing over whatever apology was on the tip of Mary Margaret’s tongue.

“I understand, Dad. Henry and Rol will probably want to sit on your blanket anyway.”  
  
“They’re here?”  
  
Emma nodded, eyes darting to the alumni booth around the corner to find Roland Locksley directing fans into single-file lines and photo ops with an ease that didn’t surprise her as much as it probably should have.

“There were apparently game-day rules I wasn’t aware of,” Emma explained. “Some kind of schedule that’s been set in stone since the dawn of time and they couldn’t go to Pittsburgh because it would jinx it. I don’t think Rol or Henry cared much. They were more than happy to just start running around the park as soon as they got here.”  
  
“Where’s Regina?” Mary Margaret asked, head on a swivel as she tried to find a well-tailored pantsuit or the tell-tale signs of heels clicking on sidewalk.

“Pacing somewhere,” Merida said. “Last I saw she was reading _Post_ stories on her phone and creating some kind of ditch on 42nd Street.”

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue sympathetically, staring at Emma like she was knew she wanted to start pacing on 42nd Street as well.

She didn’t have time.

“Boss,” Merida continued sharply, tugging on her shirtsleeve. The cardboard cutouts had fallen down again. Or knocked down.

Emma groaned, head rolling back between her shoulders and the cardboard cutouts were more trouble than they were worth. “Maybe we should just take them down,” she suggested as a particularly enthusiastic fan kicked at Phillip’s cardboard counterpart. They were wearing a Pens jersey. “Oh my God,” she sighed.

“I got it,” David said before Emma could even think about moving. He was gone half a second later, yelling something she couldn’t quite understand and Mary Margaret looked torn between impressed and something that might have been proud.

The guy stopped kicking cardboard immediately, shoulders slumping and Emma’s jaw was practically on the concrete.

Ten minutes until puck drop.

David said something else and the guy nodded slowly, glancing down towards his shoes. He ran away – actually ran.

“Did you just flash your badge at that guy?” Emma asked when David came back, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Maybe.”  
  
“David. You didn’t have to do that. We’ve got security.”  
  
“From a park,” David scoffed.

“And some of the 17th precinct. We are not without protection, Detective.”  
  
“Your cardboard cutouts would beg to differ.”

Emma twisted her lips, but she couldn’t even start to feel frustrated, just a bit stunned that Detective David Nolan had actually flashed his badge at a Pens fan to stop beating up her outdoor decorations.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Mary Margaret might have been crying. “I saved you a spot.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
Her head snapped up at the genuine surprise in his voice and Mary Margaret was definitely crying, soft sniffles audible even over the already-chanting crowd packed into Bryant Park. “Well,” Emma started, shrugging like this wasn’t the big deal it absolutely was. “I wanted to make sure you could see the TV and we maybe, sort of, blocked off a spot. Over there.”  
  
Henry was jumping up and down, waving his hand in the air like they couldn’t see him – or _hear_ him, shouting about David’s jersey. He wasn’t wearing a Jones jersey.

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, nearly knocking her over with the force of her hug.

“This is not that big of a deal, Reese’s. We blocked off some grass.”  
  
“Did you put tape up?” David asked incredulously and they’d somehow become some kind of six-arm’ed hug monstrosity.

“We had to make sure you had space,” she mumbled. Her face was pressed up against Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“Five minutes, boss,” Merida said.

Emma nodded again and David’s hand had worked its way around the back of her head as the three of them tried to pull themselves apart.

“Go get your space,” Emma said, nodding towards Henry and a patch of grass. Mary Margaret sniffled again and David squeezed her shoulder so tightly she was surprised his badge number didn’t just shift to _dad_ automatically.

“We’ll find you for the third period?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be mostly done by then.”

“Thanks, Em.”

She didn’t stop moving for the first two periods, she was certain. The Pens fans came back and they did actually have to move the cardboard cutouts because a whole horde of kids had started trying to actually play hockey with them.

There were giveaways to organize during intermission and, at one point, the sound wasn’t perfectly matched up on screen and Emma was terrified the entire park was half a moment away from rioting.

Her feet were blistered – Emma was positive.

She didn’t stop moving.

She was pacing and they were losing. Or, at least, not winning. Tied. 1-1 game and they’d just dropped the puck in the third period and every single one of her muscles felt like they were tightening.

She couldn’t stop moving.

Emma tugged on the ends of her hair and if Regina had been walking some kind of ditch into 42nd Street, then she was practically digging out a trench in the middle of Bryant Park. She heard someone hit off the crossbar or maybe the post.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t stop moving. The crowd groaned. That didn’t help her figure out who was actually scoring the puck.

 _God_.

“It wasn’t Killian,” David said, catching Emma around the wrist mid-pace.

“What?” Emma snapped and she still hadn’t looked at the screen. The crowd cheered. It wasn’t a goal. “Wait, what’s going on, why are you here?”  
  
“You didn’t show up for your spot on the blanket.”  
  
“I’ve been kind of busy.”  
  
“And visibly nervous.”  
  
“I’m not nervous.”  
  
“Emma,” David laughed, letting go of her wrist only to put both his hands on her shoulder and level her with a very specific type of stare.

“I’m sorry I missed curfew,” she muttered and she sounded every inch the teenager she was pretending she wasn’t.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”  
  
“Did you just leave Reese’s sitting by herself?”  
  
David scowled at her and the look was a bit of a glare now. “Of course not. I left her with Henry and Roland. They were far too busy yelling at the game to realize I’d even gotten up.”  
  
“Reese’s too?” Emma asked skeptically. “When did that happen?”  
  
“About the same time you guys clinched a playoff berth. She cheered when Scarlet fought Soyer in the second game of the series.”  
  
“That can’t possibly be true.”  
  
“Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. Although,” David added, tapping on the curve of her shoulder, “that would mean you’d have to get closer to the screen and then, eventually, you might have to watch the game.”  
  
“I’ve watched the game.”  
  
“While you were pacing?”  
  
Emma grumbled and she couldn’t come up with an argument – called out in the middle of Bryant Park. The crowd made noise again and her head snapped up instinctively, eyes going wide and lip in between her teeth and they’d scored.

They were winning.

“Wait,” she said quickly, half shouting the word at the screen like that would, somehow, pull up a replay immediately. “What happened? Who scored?”

“Play the replay,” David shouted, glaring at the screen instead of Emma.

It worked for him.

It wasn’t Killian – at least the goal wasn’t – and for as many turnovers in the goddamn neutral zone as he’d had that season, he was also, apparently, very good at causing them. Soyer didn’t even seen him coming, skating across center ice and towards the boards and a loose puck and Killian didn’t slow down.

The headlines would probably read _steamrolled_ the next morning.

Soyer looked like he flew before he landed on the ice and Killian barely even stopped skating long enough to get the puck on his stick, let alone worry about the Penguins player laying in front of him. He flicked his wrist and Robin was half a step ahead of the nearest player, just barely onsides as Booth trailed the play and worked his way in front of the net.

Booth scored.

And it sounded as if the entire city of Pittsburgh was jam-packed into that arena, all of them groaning collectively as soon as the goal light went off.

“Soyer won’t be able to skate for the rest of the night,” David laughed. He still had his hand on Emma’s shoulder.

“Good,” she said quickly and that only made him laugh more.

“Good pass too.”  
  
“He’s good at that.”  
  
“You read _The Post_ today?”  
  
“I thought we came to some sort of understanding. We weren’t going to talk about media reports or speculation about what happens after anymore.”  
  
“No, no, I know,” David muttered. “But this might be a good thing.”  
  
Emma turned on him, eyebrows lifted and the questions written on her face. “The Hart rumors have started again,” he said.

She tried not to groan. It didn’t really work. She groaned and crossed her arms tightly over her chest and no wonder Killian was so nervous the day before, nothing about this stupid sport or its media reports could stay consistent.

“That flipped quickly didn’t it,” Emma hissed, falling into _defensive_ immediately. David grinned at her. “Two weeks ago they were ready to run him out of town and the internet hated me. Now he’s on the fast track to the Hart.”  
  
“Well,” David shrugged, “he’s been on some kind of point streak now this series.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but it was true – seven games and points in six of them – and she’d been doing her best not to think about post-season awards when there was already so much riding on _now_ , but that, apparently, was impossible.

“It’d probably help him sign somewhere if he did win,” David continued and Emma groaned again.

“You want to do this now? Right now? In the third period of an away Game Seven?”  
  
“Yeah, well, you don’t ever want to talk about it. Mary Margaret said you deflect every time she tries to bring it up.”

“That’s because she thinks I should have moved into Killian’s apartment.”  
  
David rolled his eyes and she was half a step away from pacing again. Ten minutes left in the period. A perfect time for some kind of life-changing conversation.

“She said Killian’s been spending a lot of time at _your_ apartment,” David countered and she couldn’t figure out if he was actually arguing with her or just pointing out facts.

“Yeah, that’s true. How that’s any of your business is something else entirely.”  
  
“Don’t do that.”  
  
“What? What are you trying to ask? If he’ll move into my apartment if he doesn’t sign with the Rangers? Or if he’ll still spend time at my apartment if he signs somewhere else? I don’t know. I don’t. There is no answer. There’s only now and the next,” she glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen, “nine minutes and twelve seconds. Give or take.”  
  
David stared at her for a beat and Emma’s shoulders were heaving by the end of her mini speech. He smiled. “Good,” he said simply and tugged her flush against his chest, hand around the back of her head and it felt like he kissed her hair.

They watched the next nine minutes and twelve seconds of game-time together, David’s quiet presence by her side doing something to calm Emma’s nerves and she didn’t try to start pacing once. She stopped tapping her toe instead and he started laughing at her.

The Penguins pulled the goalie with two minutes on the clock and Emma wasn’t certain she breathed the entire time – Soyer coming onto the ice as the extra skater – and the puck was in the zone for an eternity.

Emma moved behind David once they hit a minute, forehead pressed against his shoulder. He kept laughing at her.

“Em, you can’t hold my arm that tightly,” he muttered.

She hummed against his jacket, grip bordering somewhere close to vice-like as the crowd she couldn’t actually see started making noise.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh you want to know what’s going on now?”  
  
“Obviously. I just don’t want to watch it.”

David’s body shook against hers, but he silenced quickly when, presumably, something bad happened. “They need to get out of the zone,” he said, sounding like he was muttering the words more to himself than to Emma. “They’ve been in there forever. Scarlet can hardly skate.”  
  
“That’s because he’s only got one fully functioning leg.”  
  
“True,” David agreed. He winced and Emma could hear the blocked shot as easily as if she were in Pittsburgh and standing in between the benches.

“Who was that?”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
Emma sighed and David’s gasp was probably because of her hand on his arm and not anything that was going on in the game. “How much time?” she demanded. “Did they change yet?”  
  
“You know, you can watch the game, Em.”  
  
“David!”  
  
“Twenty-four seconds.”

There was a whistle on the ice and, she hoped, a faceoff, and that would, at least, get them off the ice and get a new shift on. She didn’t move away from David’s back.

“They won the faceoff,” he said, narrating whatever Emma refused to look at. “Out of the zone. Ah, shit, they iced it.”  
  
“See, good thing you came over here, Reese’s would have clicked her tongue if she heard you say _shit_.”  
  
“I can still revoke your maid of honor duties.”  
  
“Please,” Emma scoffed. “I might as well be your best man, too.” David didn’t argue and Emma smiled against his shoulder blade. “Time update, Nolan.”  
  
“Nineteen seconds.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Wash that mouth out with soap, young lady,” David laughed, prying her fingers off his bicep. “They won the faceoff. Oh, that’s smart.”  
  
“David, if we’re going to do this, you need to be more detailed. Time update, again.”  
  
“Twelve seconds. They’re just skating around at center ice. Jeez, that’s dangerous. They just passed it back in the zone.” He practically cackled, the noise attracting more than a few curious stares by the tourists who didn’t entirely understand what was going on. “Soyer missed the cut-off. He tried to lunge towards the puck and he didn’t get his stick down in time.”  
  
“You’re supposed to keep your stick on the ice,” Emma mumbled. “No matter what.”  
  
“Why do I feel like I said that?”  
  
“You did, that’s why. The first game we watched. Someone missed a pass and their stick wasn’t on the ice and you complained about it for the rest of the night. Reese’s had to tell you to stop talking about it.”  
  
David made a noise in the back of his throat and Emma couldn’t quite believe she remembered that. She was probably losing her mind. And this game had to almost be over.

The crowd started chanting – they’d reached ten seconds – and every single second was the longest second in her entire life.

“They’re back in the zone,” David murmured. “Five, four, three….”

“Two, one,” Emma finished.

The crowd exploded and Emma’s whole body sagged as David spun on her, hand around her waist and smile on his face as he tugged her up. “We won,” he shouted and all she could do was nod, a mess of emotions and belief and something, _finally_ , going the way she wanted.

There were chants and cheers and _Let’s go Rangers_ echoing across that tiny bit of grass in the middle of Manhattan.

Emma, finally, got her feet back on the ground and she stared at the screen, eyes tracing across it like she was willing it to show her what she wanted – he was leaning up against the boards, helmet off and _that_ , that, was the smile she’d been waiting for, the one she’d seen in her apartment the morning before and, God, she was happy.

They’d won.

Killian didn’t touch the trophy during the post-game presentation, but the smile was still on his face when they made him pose for photos and Emma’s stomach might have flipped. She might have been the one crying now.

David didn’t say anything about that. She’d have to mention that in her maid of honor speech as well.

She nearly jumped when her phone started to ring and Emma shrugged when David glanced questioningly at the sound. Everyone she knew was in that park or on the ice in Pittsburgh.

“Hello?” she asked, not even bothering to glance down at the name on the screen.

“Emma?”

“Liam?” David’s eyes were almost dangerously wide and Emma shrugged again. “What? How did you get this number?”  
  
“Did they win?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The guys. Did they win?”

“Yeah,” she answered automatically. “2-1. Wait, why weren’t you watching the game? Where are you?”

There was noise on the other end of the line and Emma pulled her phone away, eyebrows pulled low when she saw Elsa’s name on the screen. “Liam,” she continued. “Where are you? Is El ok?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. “Tired, but ok.”  
  
It took two seconds for everything to click, Emma’s hand back on David’s arm – mostly so her knees wouldn’t give out. “Did you guys…”  
  
“Absurdly early this morning,” Liam interrupted and she could hear the smile in his voice. “She was...well, amazing, honestly. But there’s no 4G in this entire goddamn hospital and no NBC Sports and it’s the most ridiculous problem I’ve ever had, but…”  
  
“El wanted to know, didn’t she?”  
  
“Demanded more like it.”  
  
Emma’s jaw was going to crack, she was smiling so wide. Bryant Park might be her new favorite place in the entire city. “And Lizzie is ok? Isn’t it kind of early?”  
  
“Perfect, she’s perfect. Nearly six pounds, no hair to speak of. And only two weeks. That’s what the bed rest was supposed to prevent, but, Elsa’s _Elsa_ and Lizzie, I guess, was just fairly determined to see a Cup run.”  
  
“They won,” Emma whispered, like she was giving up some sort of government secret.

“They did. How’d he do?”  
  
“Second assist on the game-winner and, from what I was told, some kind of game-clinching block in the zone.”  
  
“He lunged, Liam,” David shouted from a few feet away. “Jeff totally wouldn’t have made that stop. Saved the whole game.”  
  
“Relax, Detective,” Emma mumbled, but Liam was laughing on the other end and David’s enthusiasm was catching. “Although it was a good block.”  
  
“That’s not really his thing.”  
  
“He wanted to win.”  
  
Liam made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and Emma was glad he didn’t start saying something absurdly sentimental – she was already far too emotional. “Thank you, Emma,” he said.

Well, there went sentiment.

Emma’s vision went misty and she blinked quickly so David wouldn’t see her actually crying over _hockey_ in the middle of Bryant Park.

She absolutely wasn’t crying over hockey.

“Congratulations, Liam,” she muttered. “Send pictures, ok?”  
  
“Consider it done.”

He hung up and Emma’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, some kind of physical reminder of what exactly was going on – everything, all at once.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret shouted, walking towards her and David with Henry half a step behind. Roland’s hand was wrapped up between hers and Regina’s, skipping across the sidewalk like he’d scored the game-winner.

“Hey,” she said quickly, trying to brush the tears she totally wasn’t crying off her cheeks. “Sorry I never made it back.”  
  
“That’s ok. I think we’ve found a ringbearer anyway. And maybe an usher?”

Henry and Roland nodded enthusiastically and this wasn’t even fair anymore. This kind of thing didn’t happen in the real world.

The real world was dark and lonely and an entire NHL team shouldn’t be able to feel like a family. That same NHL team didn’t seem to care much about any of that.

“Anyway,” Mary Margaret continued and she totally saw the tears. “Ariel is, apparently, getting Eric to open up later tonight when the guys get home and we’re going to head up to help. You want to come?”  
  
Emma couldn't even be surprised. Of course they were going to open up the restaurant.

“I can’t,” she sighed. “I’ve got to finish breaking down here and get some social media things out.”  
  
“Well,” Regina said. “They won’t be home until some God-awful hour anyway. You’ve got some time.”

Emma nodded – Merida already making her way towards her with a schedule for the _end_ of the event and they were absurdly over-planned. “I’ll meet you guys up there?”

“Sure.”  
  
It didn’t take long – there was a schedule, after all – but Emma didn’t make it to the restaurant until after midnight. Roland was already asleep, curled up in the corner of a booth with Henry blinking blearily next to him.

And the New York Rangers organization must have been the most efficient group of human beings in the entire league, banners hanging and everyone already sporting Eastern Conference champ mech and Emma was forced into a hat before she even entirely realized what was happening.

David handed her a glass without a word and Mary Margaret called her into the corner of the bar, pointing at the grilled cheese she’d already ordered for her. There was talk about the game and the final two minutes and how much _Pittsburgh absolutely sucked_ , but the conversation died down the longer they waited and they seemed to wait forever.

Her phone vibrated on the bar and Emma’s eyes snapped open, wider than they’d been all night. She’d nearly fallen asleep at the bar.

**We won.**

_Weird, I noticed that._

**Are you home?**  
_  
No._

**Where are you?**

_Why, Captain, are you trying to tell me you want to see me?_

**If you’re trying to woo me again, Swan, it’s completely unnecessary. I’m in a cab uptown and Robin seems to think there’s some kind of plan that I don’t care about and I am very interested in kissing you.**

Emma was suddenly very awake, stomach flipping several times to prove it.

Regina’s phone went off and Emma’s eyes went to the door out of instinct, voices just outside and Roland mumbled a bit from his spot in the corner.

She nearly jumped off the stool when the door swung open, feet hitting the ground as soon as she heard Killian’s grumbled _I just want to go home_. And Emma barely gave herself a moment to register that he’d just told her he wanted to kiss her.

Like she was home.

David chuckled softly when Emma all but sprinted across the restaurant, arms around Killian’s neck as soon as she collided against him.

He grunted softly, but he didn’t move her away from him, just wrapped his arms around her waist and caught her lips with his and there was something to be said for emotion, apparently. Emma had to press up on tiptoes to reach him, fingers finding their way into his hair and he still smelled like celebratory champagne despite the post-game shower she knew he’d taken.

Killian’s hand tightened, gripping the fabric of her shirt and the whole restaurant could have been crumbling down around them and Emma was convinced neither one of them would have noticed.

It felt a little bit like Tarrytown – important and meaningful and something that might have been life-changing.

There was an entire NHL team around them still.

“God,” Will muttered, kicking at their feet when he walked into the restaurant. “Get a room. There are kids here.”  
  
“Roland’s been asleep since we got here,” Emma mumbled. Killian smiled and they hadn’t really moved away from each other yet.

“And that might have been _my_ original plan,” Killian added.

“Are you ok?” she continued, hands ghosting over the front of his jacket. “That was a heck of a block.” David scoffed from the back of the restaurant and Killian tilted his head in question. “Or at least I was told it was.”  
  
His smile grew even more and his thumb traced over her wrist. “Could you not watch, Swan?”  
  
“I was super busy all night.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Killian promised. “Bruised to hell, but fine.”

“Did you talk to Liam?”  
  
Will groaned again, grabbing one of Emma’s onion rings from the plate still sitting at the bar. “Oh, jeez, now you’ve done it, Emma. He wouldn’t stop talking about it all night. The entire plane ride, shoving his phone in people’s faces like it was something any of us actually wanted to see.”  
  
“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian hissed, but it didn’t hold quite enough venom to be actually threatening. “Did you see, Swan?”  
  
Emma nodded. She’d already shown Mary Margaret twice. “She’s perfect.”

“We won.”  
  
“We did,” she said and kissing him again just made sense. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Killian nodded once, fingers lacing through Emma’s as he tugged her back through the door and into a cab and they fell asleep wrapped up in each other almost as soon as they landed on her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a lot. A lot happened. Let's go win a Cup. It was kind of blink and miss, but the Kings won in the west. As in the Los Angeles Kings. As in Emma's former team, owned by Robert Gold with Neal running PR. If you thought Pittsburgh was dramatic...just wait. ::cackles in the distance::
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading. I am so blown away by every comment, click and emotion. It's honestly the best. @laurenorder fixed all of this. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	39. Chapter 39

“Is it always sunny here?” Will asked, squinting up at the sky like he was actually in pain.

Killian rolled his eyes and Roland laughed softly next to him, tugging on the bottom of his jacket and while _he_ certainly wasn’t about to complain about sunshine, it was fairly hot. And they couldn’t take the jackets off.

He wouldn’t complain.

He’d just sweat to death. Probably.

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Robin muttered, brushing against him as he swung open one of the doors on the side of the Staples Center.

Will made a face, pulling Roland away from Killian’s side and slinging his arm over his shoulder – as if that would somehow protect him from age-old insults and jabs just a few minutes before league-mandated media days.

Roland couldn’t stop laughing. He and Henry had gotten new merch almost as soon as they clinched – Eastern Conference champion t-shirts and hats and sweatshirts and, now, they were both in their own Stanley Cup Finals jerseys that Killian was half convinced they'd never actually take off.

“Just because you don’t have a kid wearing your jersey doesn’t mean you have to be a jerk about it,” Killian said, widening his eyes knowingly.

Will groaned. “Whatever.”  
  
“Hit the nail right on the head then, didn’t I?”  
  
“You aren’t Mrs. V, you don’t get to just start shouting clichés at me, Cap.”  
  
“I hardly think I shouted anything at you. We’re having this normal, calm conversation, like normal, calm people. You’re the one freaking out.”   
  
“Who’s freaking out, Hook?” Roland asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he started tugging on suit jackets again.

“Uncle Will,” Killian said.

“Ok,” Will snapped, turning on Killian and Roland with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “First of all, I am not freaking out. I am hot.”  
  
“Presumptuous.”   
  
Robin rolled his eyes and Killian grinned, glancing down at Roland, who, it appeared, was finding all of this more amusing than just about anything. “Don’t antagonize him,” Robin sighed, brushing his hand over Henry’s shoulder.

“Scarlet’s words, not mine,” Killian laughed.

“Warm,” Will corrected and he still hadn’t uncrossed his arms. “I am warm. Because it is perpetually sunny here and we have to wear these stupid jackets.”  
  
“Those stupid jackets let you keep your job.”   
  
“I could pay the fine,” Will said quickly. “How much you think it’d be if I just showed up to media in a t-shirt and shorts?”   
  
“More than you can afford,” Ruby answered, appearing at the end of the hallway with a smug look on her face and no league-mandated jacket.

“You don’t know that. For real though, how much do you think it’d be, Lucas?”  
  
“Too much,” she said, heels echoing on the floor when she walked towards them with a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other. She didn’t look at any of them when she moved, a picture of media relations efficiency and something that might have been frustration because Killian had absolutely been trying to antagonize Scarlet.

Will grumbled, kicking at something that wasn’t actually on the floor as Ruby’s fingers flew across her phone screen. “Does it ever rain in Los Angeles? I’d really love if it would rain. Or at least maybe a few clouds.”  
  
“You’re a pessimist, aren’t you?”   
  
“Warm, Lucas. I am warm.”   
  
“Maybe you should take a shower before media.”   
  
“Ok, see, that’s just rude.”

“They call it the sunshine state for a reason, don’t they?”  
  
“I don’t think that’s California,” Robin objected. “Cap, what’s California?”   
  
Killian made a face and held his hands up. “Why would I know that?”

“You think Emma knows?”  
  
“Why would anyone care about that?”   
  
“You guys are always doing that cutesy fact thing. And Liam totally made you learn what all the states were at some point. That’s almost too on point for him.”   
  
“He never did that, although I will pay you a good amount of money to tell Liam he missed out on some sort of academic activity. Maybe it is sunshine, then.”   
  
“That’s Florida,” Henry corrected and four wide-eyed adults stared at him. “Florida’s the sunshine state. California’s the golden state.”   
  
“How’d you know that?”   
  
“I do go to school sometimes.”   
  
“Sometimes?”   
  
“Well when you guys aren’t in the Cup Finals.”   
  
“And he’s still got homework to do,” Robin added as Henry sighed dramatically.

Killian laughed, hauling Roland up without even really considering it and everyone in a five-foot radius rolled their eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Robin muttered.

“It’s because you’re old,” Will added. “And, you know, what? You guys might have vaguely adorable children wearing your jerseys now, but, _but_ , I’m some kind of fan favorite. What do you two say to a friendly little bet?”   
  
“What?” Killian asked, rolling his shoulder so Roland’s weight shifted a bit more comfortably. He was definitely going to hurt himself.

“A bet,” Will repeated.

“No, I heard you. I just don’t understand where this is going.”  
  
Ruby was tapping her heel impatiently and her phone hadn’t stopped making noise since they’d landed at LAX the day before. “If you guys could do this at, literally, any other time, that’d be absolutely fantastic.”   
  
“You got some kind of schedule to stick to, Lucas?” Killian asked and she glared at him.

“You know I do and you know Emma does too. Don’t act like you don’t.”  
  
He couldn’t really shrug since there was a seven-year-old wearing a Locksley jersey draped over his shoulder, but Killian hummed in agreement. He knew, had seen the to-do-list for the day that morning and Emma’s phone made almost as much noise as Ruby’s.

Will let out a low whistle, throwing a meaningful glance towards Robin. “Uh oh, Cap, were you not in your assigned room last night?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian sighed. “Lucas, what happened to this schedule?”   
  
Ruby made a noise in the back of her throat, smile threatening to overtake her face and Killian didn’t appreciate being backed into some sort of metaphorical corner like this. Will nearly fell over, arm clutching his side tightly as his whole body shook with laughter.

“Alright,” Ruby said sharply, falling back into _business_ as soon as her phone vibrated four times in a row. “You’ve each got a table out there and people who want to talk to you. You sit, you answer questions, you don’t say anything stupid and, after a half an hour of this, you get up from those tables and those people and you find me and we go to Emma’s fan event and you smile for _those_ people and then you go to skate. Got it?”   
  
“That was very efficient, Lucas,” Killian said.

“Shut up, Jones. Or I’ll tell Emma on you.”  
  
“Tell Emma what, exactly?”   
  
“That you’re being an ass.”   
  
“Ruby,” he snapped and she hissed in air through her teeth, tossing an apologetic look towards Roland.

“Sorry, Rol.”

“It’s ok,” Roland promised, never one to be too upset at the decidedly not-quite-family tendencies of a team trying to win its first Cup in several decades.

“He’s got a new jersey, he doesn’t care,” Robin reasoned. He rested his hand on Roland’s back, thumb tapping against his number and Killian wished they’d get on with media day so they could get on with the rest of the schedule and he could get back to a hotel room he hadn’t been assigned to.

This Los Angeles trip was going to be better. This wouldn’t end in fights and arguments and trade prospects. They were going to win here.

Roland moved, twisting Killian’s jacket as he tried to pull himself up to look at him. “Can I come with you, Hook?”  
  
“What?” Killian asked and Ruby had her phone out again. He heard a shutter snap and Roland had moved off his shoulder, balanced on his side and his arm and Ariel would _kill_ him if he actually hurt himself because of this. “God, Ruby, what are you doing?”   
  
“This is painfully adorable. It should be Snapchat'ed.”  
  
“That seems more PR than you.”   
  
“That seems like none of your business,” she muttered distractedly, waving one hand in her face while her other hand sent out pictures to social media without his permission. “Bring Rol with you, it’s super cute.”   
  
Killian glanced at Robin – who seemed torn somewhere in between terrified at the prospect of arguing with the _schedule_ and what would happen when Regina found out Roland was on the New York Rangers Snapchat. He shrugged and pulled Henry against his side.

“You want to come with me, Henry?” Robin asked. “We’ll confuse ‘em with mismatching jerseys.”  
  
Henry nodded enthusiastically and Ruby looked overjoyed. This was an addition to the schedule that would, probably, spark half a dozen headlines and it was positive and _adorable_ and didn’t require her to do any extra work.

“Alright, mate,” Killian said, finally meeting Roland’s expectant gaze. “Let’s go talk to the horde.”  
  
Ruby groaned and he’d absolutely done it for the reaction. “Ok, well don’t call them that when you get out there,” she shouted, but Killian just waved his hand behind him as he moved down the hallway.

It wasn’t really that bad.

Roland was as good a buffer as any Killian could have asked for and half of the first round of questions were about him and his thoughts on the series and why exactly he had a nickname for the captain of the New York Rangers.

There were a lot of questions and a lot of voices and Killian wasn’t convinced his eyes hadn’t suffered permanent damage from the vaguely ridiculous amount of lights around them, but it wasn’t bad.

It was, almost, fun.

“What about the bet?”

Killian snapped his head up, eyebrows drawn low in confusion at a reporter who absolutely wasn’t from New York.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Scarlet said there was a bet.”  
  
He groaned and Roland was actually sitting on his media table now, legs crossed underneath him as he surveyed the sea of reporters around them. “Of course he did,” Killian muttered. “What did he say the terms were?”

The reporter nodded once, glancing around to make sure the rest of the media horde noticed him. Killian tried not to groan again.

“Point, hits and ice time,” he said. “Add ‘em up, subtract any penalties, and between you and Scarlet, whoever ends up with the most after the first two games of the series. Wins.”  
  
“And the losers?”   
  
“Buy the other one’s jerseys and wear ‘em before the New York games.”   
  
“Pretty tame bet.”   
  
The guy shrugged. “He said something about team competition and getting the line back on track and, well, keeping you on the first line.”   
  
“Naturally,” Killian sighed, rolling his eyes and it didn’t even surprise him that Scarlet had taken the chance to publicly mock his line demotion. That’s what he got for making fun of him before. “Anything else?”  
  
“Not about the bet.”   
  
Killian sat up a bit straighter and even Roland seemed to notice the change in the reporter’s tone, pulling up towards the front of the table to swing his legs over the edge. “What about then?” he asked.

“About you and Milah Onde.”

His mouth dropped open and Roland made a noise, a gasp of understanding that Killian didn’t quite expect from a seven-year-old. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Killian said, tongue darting over his lips and he pressed his arms against his side like he was willing the tattoo to disappear from underneath his jacket.

The reporter clicked his tongue and shook his head. “See, I’m fairly certain that you do. I’ve got sources.”  
  
“Yeah, who?”   
  
“I’m afraid I can’t just say _who_ , but they’re credible and they put Milah Onde in the car at the same time as you when you got hurt.”

Killian swallowed and the room suddenly felt very small. It wasn’t. It was enormous. It was a goddamn conference room and there were no less than twenty different media outlets standing a few feet in front of them, every single one of them waiting for him to say something.

Anything.

He had to actually say something.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together tightly, trying to force the oxygen back into his lungs and come up with something, _anything_ , that wasn’t this moment – getting on the ice and skating and scoring and he was on some kind of multi-game point streak, they should want to talk about that.

They shouldn’t want to talk about this.

No one else knew about this. Who knew about Milah? Robin and Gina and Scarlet and Ruby and Liam and Elsa and Anna. That was it.

And Emma.

Emma knew about Milah and the accident and every single moment of that night.

Emma.

Killian opened his eyes and something felt like it had shifted in that entirely too-big conference room, staring out at a mass of reporters with an easy stare that didn’t quite make sense for whatever situation he’d stumbled into.

Emma.

Emma knew and Emma didn’t care and Emma wasn’t the _source_ and that was enough. No matter what they printed.

“Any sort of comment, Killian?” the reporter asked, eyebrows lifted and phone held loosely in his hand. “About Milah? You know, from what I can tell by the records I’ve been given, that divorce was never final. She died before it went through.”  
  
Roland shifted on the table, turning around to look at Killian. He smiled.

“I’ve got nothing to say,” Killian answered, pulling Roland back towards him and resting his hand on the _Locksley_ emblazoned across his back.

“What about the new one?”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Well, you two haven’t exactly been shy about it? You and the front office girl. She’s kind of a perennial dater isn’t she? Although at least this one isn’t married.”

Roland stood up and Killian didn’t even try to stop him, mouth hanging open again and breath rushing out of him and, goddamnit, where was Ruby?

“Leave Emma alone,” Roland half shouted, a response before Killian could even begin to formulate coherent thoughts.

That woke him up. “Sit down, mate,” Killian muttered and the reporter laughed.

“Thanks for the tip, kid,” he said, glancing around at the crowd that was still standing there waiting for Killian to acknowledge Milah. “Anything else you’d like to add, Cap? Maybe, what’s her name, Emma, got handed this job with the Rangers because she’s good friends with your media director? Or how you two have proved a complete distraction for this entire team throughout the season? Anything?”  
  
“We’re in the Cup Finals,” Killian answered. “Doesn’t seem like much of a distraction.”   
  
“That seemed like a confirmation, Cap.”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes. “That what you want?”   
  
“Whatever you’ll give.”   
  
“Alright,” he said sharply, hand still on Roland’s back. “Fine. I am dating Emma Swan. It is not a distraction. For me or anyone else on my team. She’s ridiculously good at her job and your source probably should have mentioned that when they were giving you the rundown on all of this. None of it, however, has anything to do with getting on the ice or winning a Cup, which is why we’re here right now. So unless you’ve got a question about that, then we’re done.”   
  
He stood up, nearly knocking the chair over behind him and Roland was still smiling. “C’mon, mate,” Killian muttered, holding his hand out. Roland jumped off the table and jogged towards Ruby, standing just a few feet away from them, looking as if the entire world was about to crash down around them.

“A little late, huh, Lucas?” he asked.

“Scarlet was explaining the bet to anyone who would listen. I didn’t….”  
  
“I know,” Killian interrupted. “It’s fine.”   
  
“It is the opposite of fine.”   
  
“That too. Who was that? He’s not from New York is he?”   
  
Ruby shook her head and, eventually, Roland was going to get tired of being pulled against people’s sides of some sort of child-based support system. “He got credentialed through the Kings. He’s like TMZ, but somehow worse since TMZ is almost actual journalism now.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You know, they break a lot of stories and especially in sports…”   
  
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant he got credentialed through the Kings? You’re sure?”   
  
“Well, I didn’t do it. So it must have been.”  
  
“Who’d be in charge of that?”

Ruby shrugged. “It depends team to team. With stuff like this it’s probably a couple of different people, honestly.”  
  
“But just you in New York?”   
  
“I’m very specific about who gets in.”   
  
“You’re a control freak is what you’re saying,” Killian laughed and Ruby actually stuck her tongue out. “So it could be media relations and PR then? Some kind of joint credential effort?”   
  
“What are you getting at?”   
  
Killian raised his eyebrows and it was almost _too_ obvious when Ruby understood. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “Sorry, Rol. Again. Don’t tell your dad I said that.”

“Is that possible?” Killian pressed.

“It could be,” Ruby admitted. “Cover your ears, Rol.” Roland did as instructed, smiling widely at Killian as he moved his hands. “Shit,” she repeated, stamping her foot for good measure. “God fucking damnit. Emma’s going to lose her mind. She’s going to kill him, you know that?”  
  
“I’d probably help, honestly.”   
  
“Well neither one of you can actually do that.”   
  
“No one else knows,” Killian said. “About Milah and the accident. No one except Gold. And, now, maybe, Neal who’s credentialing gossip websites to write stories about it. I don’t get it.”   
  
“For real?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “Gold is all about control,” Ruby explained. “Or that’s what it seems like at least. And if he bought the Kings last year and brought in all his new people then he did it for a reason. To win a Cup. You’re on some kind of ridiculous point streak and this team is good and this could work, Cap. This team can win. He knows it. So he’s fighting with something else. It’s a distraction, all over again.”   
  
“That’s insane.”   
  
“Nah,” Ruby objected. “That’s front office politics.”   
  
“But why drag Emma into it?”   
  
“A complete takedown. I mean, they fired her too didn’t they?”

Killian nodded slowly, breathing coming in short gasps and it did, almost, make sense. Maybe not in the real world where there was a Cup to win and a max deal to sign, but in _this_ world where everything seemed flipped on its head, it was almost too obvious.

“He’s trying to break you apart,” Ruby continued, taking his silence for misunderstanding. “Both of you. If you’re thinking about the past and worried about Emma, then he’s winning. And the team gets distracted and the New York tabs drag you over some metaphorical coals.”  
  
“Fuck,” Killian mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Jeez, sorry, mate.”   
  
Roland didn’t seem impressed, head tilted up to stare at him intently. “Hook,” he said and Killian hummed distractedly. “Are you and Emma going to break up?”   
  
“What? No, why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Roland mumbled, a lie so obvious Killian was surprised it didn’t come with a flashing neon sign as well.

Killian crouched down, pulling on the bottom of the brand-new jersey and Roland wouldn’t meet his eyes. “No one’s leaving, mate,” he said seriously. “I promise.”  
  
Roland nodded slowly, still staring at his shoes. “Ok,” he mumbled. “Because I like Emma.”   
  
“I do too.”   
  
“You might want to mention that,” Ruby added, pushing her phone into Killian’s face. “Several times. As soon as you see her.”   
  
Killian sighed, eyes closing lightly and it didn’t really matter because that headline was going to be seared into his memory for the rest of his life. “Cover your ears, mate,” he said before muttering every single curse he could think of.

She was working when they got to the fan event and Killian’s phone battery was somewhere in the realm of _very dead_ , a string of text messages from half a dozen people who all demanded to know _what was going on_.

Elsa had sent the link to the tweet.

As if he hadn’t seen it. And thought about nothing except the tweet the entire car ride to the fan event.

Regina was, apparently, going to kill him.

She’d have to get in line.

“Come on, Cap,” Ruby muttered, pushing on the back of his jacket as he stepped through the door. “One foot in front of the other.”

Robin shot her a meaningful look – his phone in his hand and Regina was texting _all of them_ now – but Ruby didn’t move her hand or stop muttering semi-supportive nonsense in Killian’s ear as he walked into the restaurant.

“Lucas, I haven’t lost my motor skills,” he hissed and Emma, somehow, managed to hear that, even with Merida a few feet behind her and a crease between her eyebrows.

They’d hit traffic.

Los Angeles was the worst city in the entire world.

“Hey,” Emma shouted, waving her hand towards a table and a line of fans. There was merch everywhere. She was wearing merch – a shirt with _Cup Ready_ emblazoned across the front and Killian bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from kissing her right there in the middle of a chain restaurant in downtown Los Angeles.

“We hit traffic,” Killian explained, answering a question he hadn’t actually been asked. Emma lowered her eyebrows.

“You ok?”

“Fine.”  
  
“Jones.”   
  
“You didn’t get any text messages did you? Actual phone calls? Mary Margaret planning my death in frightening detail?”   
  
Emma tilted her head, a shadow of a smile tugging on the ends of her mouth and she crossed her arms slowly, staring at him like he’d started speaking a different language. They were very behind schedule. And his phone vibrated again.

“I haven’t been able to check my phone,” Emma said. “I’ve been kind of busy trying to make sure the fans didn’t start rioting when you guys were ten minutes late.”  
  
“Traffic.”

“So you mentioned.”  
  
“If we go talk somewhere right now, do you think the fans will actually start to riot?”   
  
Emma tugged her hair back over her shoulder, lip pressed tightly in between her teeth and she shook her head. “Mer,” she yelled, glancing over her shoulder at her assistant. “Get them all in line and Locksley and Scarlet can sign and photo op now.”   
  
“What about Cap?” Merida asked, nodding in Killian’s direction. He’d never actually sat down.

“Later.”  
  
Merida didn’t object. She very clearly wanted to. “Ok,” she said. “Here’s your phone, boss. You left it in the kitchen. It’s been buzzing nonstop.”   
  
“Of course it has.”   
  
Killian groaned. “Merida, is there somewhere that isn’t filled with chanting fans right now?”   
  
“Probably the kitchen,” she answered, moving her shoulder in the same direction she’d walked out of a few moments before.

“Alright. Come on, Swan.”  
  
He held his hand out without really thinking about it and the fans cheered when they weaved their way through the crowd, some of them trying to pat him on the back while others shouted detailed game plans that absolutely would not work on the ice.

Killian counted no less than five different shutter snaps and Emma’s hand was wrapped up in his. They pushed their way through the kitchen and a few employees glanced up at the sound, eyes going wide when they noticed Killian.

Two more shutter snaps.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbled, pulling Emma behind him towards a corner and this was ridiculous.

“What’s going on with you?” Emma asked. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

“You should probably read those. I bet El sent you the link too.”  
  
“Link?”

“Tweet. Screenshot. Whatever. I wouldn’t be surprised if Banana had some very detailed opinions for you as well. She sent me ten text messages in a row.”

“About?”  
  
Killian sighed and there was no way around it. They had to talk about it. They had to resolutely ignore it. And make sure David didn’t follow through on any of the threats he’d sent Killian’s way that afternoon.

“There was a guy at media,” Killian started. “From some gossip site.”  
  
“A gossip site?”   
  
“Yeah. Started asking about some bet Scarlet wants us to agree to during the Finals and then all of the sudden started asking about...Milah.”   
  
Emma’s eyes widened and she reached her hand out quickly, gripping the front of his jacket of instinct. That almost made him feel better.

“Wait, what,” she sputtered, glancing around the kitchen like that guy’s source would suddenly appear in front of them. Just another shutter click. “Who would know that? I thought…”  
  
“No, you’re right, Swan.”   
  
“Gold?”   
  
Killian nodded slowly, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, and Emma’s eyes, somehow, got wider. “Lucas thinks so. And, well, maybe someone else.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Neal.”   
  
“Oh shit.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“Is that who Ruby thinks credentialed this gossip guy?”   
  
“Smart, Swan,” Killian smiled and maybe he did actually feel better.

“I don’t know if that’s an actual compliment. God, what an ass. Ruby said she didn’t credential that guy?”  
  
Killian shook his head and Elsa needed to put her phone down. The text messages were nonstop. She’d probably teamed up with Anna. And he was too busy worried about his own phone that he didn’t notice Emma looking down at hers, only realizing what had happened when she let out a low whistle and took another step towards him.

“Is this real?” Emma asked, voice low and Killian’s shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment three words could hold.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Like...this is out there. In the world. On the internet. Where people can see it?”   
  
“Yeah,” he repeated. He deserved every single threat David had sent him. And the ones Regina sent. And the ones Elsa and Anna were, probably, coming up with while he stood stock still in a kitchen with Emma still staring at your phone.

It wasn’t much of a story – more a headline with a Swan pun and Emma’s picture and promises of all _the details_ of her _trail of NHL stars_ and how she got her job in New York, something in that final paragraph about her and Killian and what she’d done to get her own department.

It wasn’t intelligent writing. It was drivel. It was stupid.

It was all over the goddamn internet.

“Who sent it to you?” Killian asked, positive he didn’t actually want the answer. He wanted to get on the ice. He wanted to hit something.

He wanted to kiss Emma without a kitchen employee taking another picture of them.

“El,” Emma answered.

“Of course. You know, you’d think she had other things to do.”  
  
“Oh God, Anna is texting me? I think. I don’t actually have her number.”

“Here let me see,” Killian said, holding his hand out. He didn’t even have to look at the number. The whole message was in caps lock. “Yeah, that’s Banana. El probably gave her your number. They’ve been taking turns yelling at me for the last forty-five minutes.”  
  
“Yelling? Why?”

She looked genuinely confused and maybe just a bit protective or defensive. Huh.

“Swan, did you read the story?”  
  
“I mean it’s not really much of a story.”   
  
“That’s true,” Killian admitted. “But this is exactly what you were worried about from the very beginning. This is, well, this is everything you didn’t want on some sort of national scale. El and Banana aren’t very happy with me. Neither are Regina or David, for that matter.”   
  
“David?”   
  
“I think it made it onto the subReddit.”

“Jeez. I’ll text him.”  
  
“No, no,” Killian said quickly, fingers wrapping around her wrist as she tried to swipe her thumb across her phone. “Don’t do that.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Don’t text David. It’s not...he’s not wrong.”   
  
“This is all wrong,” Emma argued, tapping her finger on the side of her phone. “I mean aside from the us dating, but that’s been kind of obvious. God, did they try and make it seem like Graham and I dated?”

She laughed. She actually laughed, smile on her face and eyes tracing across his face and Killian wasn’t certain he’d loved her more than he did right then.

In the middle of a kitchen with fans chanting for him a few feet away.

“Is this the part of the conversation where I say that everyone is probably halfway in love with you, whether they dated you or not?” Killian asked and it was far too easy to talk to her.

It always had been. From the very beginning. It was far too easy to tease and joke and his pulse pounded in his ears, far too focused on Emma’s reaction to one tweet than any potential story about someone he loved six years ago.

Emma rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling and she muttered _charmer_ under her breath. “Are you ok?” she asked.

“Swan, you can’t possibly be asking me that.”  
  
“I just did. What else did the guy say?”   
  
“Are we not worried about this? David went into some very specific details about what he was going to do when we landed in New York.”   
  
“Yeah, well he’s always been absurdly overprotective. I’m surprised he did that though, he’s very worried about messing up your pre-game schedule.”   
  
“I think he’s more worried about you.”   
  
She shrugged – a dismissive move that sent a shockwave of _something_ down Killian’s spine and it might have been his own need to protect. “Swan,” Killian continued, fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “I’m serious.”   
  
“So am I. Come on, tell me what this guy said.”

Killian took a deep breath and Emma didn’t blink, just stared and waited for an answer. “He knew she was in the car.”  
  
“What?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“And he just told you that? He didn’t want a comment?”   
  
“Oh, no he definitely wanted a comment.”   
  
“You didn’t yell at him did you?”   
  
“I know how to answer questions, Swan,” Killian sighed. Emma made a face and there wasn’t really any space in between them, but she found some anyway, forehead resting on his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from moving, lips brushing over her hair as his hand wrapped around her waist. “And it was no comment. Or something like that.”   
  
“Something like that,” she repeated, voice muffled just a bit by his jacket. “Where was Ruby this whole time?”   
  
“Dealing with Scarlet and the bet.”   
  
“That almost doesn’t surprise me.”   
  
“A distraction.”   
  
Emma scoffed, tapping out a rhythm against his side, and he kissed her again. It was too easy. And she hadn’t run. She’d leaned against him – quite literally.

“I love you,” Emma mumbled and Killian squeezed his eyes closed.

“I love you too, Swan. More than anything.”  
  
More than gossip sites or ex-boyfriends giving out credentials to less-than-reputable news sources or even a team owner who, it appeared, wanted to tear Killian down from the past to the present.

He didn’t say that part.

He didn’t really have to.

“Some sort of team, right?” Emma asked. “That was the agreement.”  
  
“An enthusiastic one.”   
  
“Then we’ll deal with it. Let them write whatever they want about me.”   
  
The kitchen door swung open and they both should have expected Regina sooner, but they’d already spent far too much time in that kitchen. “Are you kidding?” Regina snapped, staring at Killian. “You walked out?”   
  
“You walked out?” Emma said, head pulled up and mouth hanging open and there was nowhere to actually hide in the middle of a kitchen. “I thought you said you told them no comment.”   
  
“Oh he told them that too, but not before he actually confirmed you two were dating and then stormed out and then promised my kid that you two weren’t ever going to break up.”   
  
“There was no storming, Gina,” Killian muttered. Emma hadn’t blinked yet.

“Well there was enough to warrant an ESPN blog post and you know who that doesn’t look good to? Front office. That’s who. Front office that you’ve let decide your entire future.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot.”   
  
“Could have fooled me.”

Emma blinked, turning so quickly she nearly lost her balance and Killian’s hand tightened around her waist. “Can he sue?” she asked, sounding as if she’d been considering legal action for the better part of this entire conversation.

Regina blinked once, lips twisting in thought and she hummed in frustration before she actually answered. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“Isn’t that libel?”   
  
“Not if it’s true,” Regina sighed. “And, well, Milah was in the car. I mean they didn’t do anything wrong, not really. But it…”   
  
“Doesn’t look good,” Emma finished. “Yeah, I got that.”

“I can’t stop it either. They’re going to run it before the game.”  
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
“I called the site, demanded an editor, got an incompetent idiot and was informed that the story was already set. Nothing I can do about it.”   
  
Killian wasn’t quite as angry at Regina anymore. “Thanks, Gina,” he said softly and she clicked her tongue in response.

“Your assistant is going nuts out there by the way,” Regina continued, glancing at Emma. “They all want Killian.”

“Ok,” Emma said. “Two minutes.”  
  
Regina nodded, gaze darting towards Killian. He tried to look somewhere in the area of confident and he could hear the crowd outside shouting his name, but it had been an exhausting day and the story was going to run no matter what.

Emma didn’t turn back towards him until Regina’s heels had retreated completely, both hands flat on his chest. “You told Roland no one was breaking up with anyone? Ever?”  
  
He didn’t expect that question.

“Uh, yeah,” Killian answered, stammering over the two words. “He was, uh, he was worried we were going to break up. Because of the story.”  
  
“And what did you say?”   
  
“I promised him that no one was leaving. And that I liked you too.”   
  
“Too?”   
  
“Rol wanted to make sure I knew he liked you.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
Emma bit her lip, eyes falling towards the floor as she took a deep breath. “I’m not,” she whispered.”   
  
“Not what?”   
  
“Leaving. Or running. Even if they print everything. And I like you too.”   
  
He moved and Emma moved and there might have been another shutter click and another tweet, but they kissed each other anyway. Killian smiled for all of afternoon skate.

* * *

“Alright, so the rules of the bet are simple,” Will started, leaning up against the boards in the corner of the Staples Center with the edge of his skate pressing into the ice.

“Scarlet, we don’t have time for this,” Killian sighed, retreating back towards the line and warmups and it was already absurdly loud. He glanced up, a general idea of where the team boxes were and where Emma was sitting. Or would be sitting when she wasn’t helping Ruby run media requests.

It didn’t really make sense – she was in charge of her own department, after all – but Ruby had asked and Emma couldn’t bring herself to argue and it was so impossibly _nice_ , Killian couldn’t stop himself from smiling whenever he thought about it.

“What’s he smiling about?” Robin muttered, knocking his shoulder against Will’s when he skidded to a stop.

Will shrugged. “Probably Emma. Or trying to win our bet.”  
  
“It’s definitely not your bet,” Killian mumbled, twisting his stick in his hands.

“Ew.”  
  
“Isn’t Belle supposed to be here for Game 2?”   
  
“What does that have to do with anything?”   
  
“Absolutely nothing. Fine, tell me the rules of the bet.”   
  
They were, surprisingly, almost exactly what the reporter had told him during media day and they really didn’t have time for some sort of side bet during the Stanley Cup Finals, but it had been a frustrating twenty-four hours and if Killian got to win a bet and brag in front of Scarlet then he’d make time for a side bet.

Killian won the first period, two shots on net and four hits and Will was whistled for a two-minute slash that drew the ire of Arthur during intermission. Will won the second – he scored. And that was, apparently, worth six points in whatever game they were playing.

“So you’re telling me, suddenly, you’re ahead?” Killian asked, tilting his head towards Will as Robin grumbled about _focusing on the game_ as soon as they swung their legs over the boards.

“My game, my rules, Cap,” Will answered. He lowered his shoulder when he got back onto the ice, connecting on another hit and the Kings player next to him barely managed to stay on his skates. “And I’m beating the crap out of you now. Did you see that hit?”  
  
“I am on the ice with you Scarlet.”   
  
Arthur shouted something from the bench and Robin glared at both of them meaningfully. Will just laughed.

“Did we ever decide on terms?” Killian asked, pushing into the zone and he could feel a defender on his left side. It didn’t really matter. He was faster than just about anyone on the entire Kings roster.

He took the shot and missed wide right, but Robin was just a few feet away and he’d probably say it was a pass anyway. Robin’s shot went in.

They were winning.

Killian yelled, punching air and it probably looked as ridiculous as it felt, but they were winning Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals and there were only a few minutes left in the third. And that probably meant he was winning the bet too.

Unless Scarlet was cheating.

Robin groaned when Killian threw his arms around him, shouting _nice shot_ in his ear like he didn’t know it was a fucking _fantastic_ shot. “Maybe Gina won’t kill me now,” Killian added. “Setting you up like that.”

“You weren’t trying to pass to me.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”   
  
“I absolutely do.”   
  
“Whatever. Good goal. Good almost-pass. And I’m totally beating Scarlet now.”   
  
“That’s not even remotely true, Cap,” Will argued, clapping Robin on the shoulder as they skated back to the bench, a line of hands held out in front of them, ready for post-goal celebrations.

“How you figure? Assists have to be three, right? That’d put me somewhere in the double digits.”  
  
“Your math is horrible.”   
  
“You’re making up these rules as you go along!”   
  
Arthur actually stopped chewing his gum to yell at them, stepping off the bench and leaning over the boards to grab both of them by the scruff of their jerseys. “If you two don’t shut up about this goddamn bet,” he hissed, “then Regina Mills is not the only one who is going to be trying to kill you. She will have to learn how to bring you both back from the dead since I’ll have done the job already.”   
  
“Jeez. That’s harsh Arthur,” Killian muttered as Will let out a low whistle. “And don’t let her hear you mess up her name like that. Regina Mills-Locksley. It says so on her business cards.

“Plus,” Will added, “Gina only wants to kill Cap.”  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I will make sure she is intent on killing both of you. Got it?”

Arthur wasn’t going to kill them for the bet – _whatever_ the rules of it actually were – he was going to murder his whole team for a complete lack of defense in the final minute and a half of Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

They lost. Another overtime loss and it wasn’t really anyone’s fault – a good shot on a quick turnaround and none of them had moved fast enough.

There were more questions after the game.

They weren’t actually about the game.

No one actually wanted to talk about anything that happened on the ice and Killian couldn’t actually throw things in front of his visitor’s locker because that would _actually_ get Regina to follow through on those threats from the day before.

He’d hurt his hand at some point too, probably when he got hit during the third period and there was a bruise inching its way across his wrist and maybe one on his shoulder already as well. Every muscle hurt and he was exhausted and no one wanted to talk about the game. They wanted to talk about the story.

They kept using Milah’s name.

And he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t move, just had to sit there and keep muttering _no comment_ like that actually meant anything, while desperately wanting someone, _anyone_ , to ask him about losing Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“Enough,” Robin shouted a few feet away, pushing through the throng of outstretched hands and cellphones that wouldn’t get away from Killian’s locker. “Enough! God, leave him alone. Ask a question about the goddamn game.”  
  
Will wasn’t far behind him, a look on his face that Killian hadn’t seen in years – since Liam got hurt. The crowd turned on both of them, arms still stretched out and questions ringing in the air and Killian could hear Ruby’s heels echoing down the hallway.

She was running.

_Did you know Milah was married? Did you know she was married to Gold? Have you talked to Gold since you’ve been in LA, Cap? What does Emma think? Does Emma know? Hey, can we talk to Emma?_

“Shut up,” Will sighed, twisting in between two sets of recorders to tug on Killian’s shoulder. “Come on, Cap. You’re done here.”  
  
Killian got on his feet and the crowd split in front of him – albeit with a good amount of grumbling and even more questions and his head snapped around when someone shouted Emma’s name again.

“Stop talking,” Killian muttered, eyes narrowed and voice low and he hadn’t actually taken his pads off yet. The reporter in front of him took a step back. “Don’t ask me about Emma again. Don’t ask me about Milah again. Ask me about the game. That’s why I am here. To play a game.”  
  
The reporter flipped his wrist and pushed his phone towards Killian’s face. “Thoughts on losing in Game 1 and how it might affect your deal, Cap?”

Killian sighed loudly and Will actually sounded like he was going to punch this reporter in the face, but no one actually moved – until another voice started talking. He muttered under his breath and Robin shifted next to him, arms crossed and eyebrows pulled low and they had to play another game in Los Angeles before all of this was over.

“Guys, guys, guys,” Neal laughed, pushing through the reporters with a smile on his face. “Come on, you know the rules. Once he leaves the locker, it’s over. That’s how it’s always been.”  
  
Killian’s jaw ticked as he tried to press his teeth together tightly, chanting the word _fine_ in his head like some kind of mantra that would stop him from actually doing something stupid.

“Come on, Killian,” Neal continued, brushing by Robin to sling his arm over Killian’s shoulder.

Killian pushed him off, running his hand through his hair and shaking his head quickly. “I’ve got it,” he said. “They ask questions about the game and I’ll answer them.”  
  
Ruby skidded to a stop in the doorway of the locker room – something that looked like the actual embodiment of murder in her gaze as soon as she glanced Neal’s direction. And he didn’t look quite as confident anymore.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in my locker room Cassidy?” Ruby asked, voice low and intent and her eyes were barely more than slits. They might have been shooting lasers too.

Killian was only half paying attention, gaze darting up when he, somehow, heard another set of shoes and Emma was standing in the doorway of the locker room, her blazer pinched underneath her arm and concern etched into every single corner of her face.

Neal laughed again, shoulders straightening as he found his voice again. “Your locker room, Ruby? Now you know that’s not true. You guys are guests here.”  
  
“Leave my players alone, Cassidy.”   
  
Neal clicked his tongue and Emma didn’t just roll her eyes at the sound, she rolled her whole head, groaning slightly for good measure. It almost made Killian laugh.

Until the reporters realized Emma was there.

They turned quickly, jockeying for position and someone shouted a string of less-than-professional words when their phone got knocked out of their hands. She blinked once, taken aback by the onslaught of questions and statements and Neal clicked his tongue again.

“Hey, Ems,” he said evenly, taking a step towards her as she pushed her arms back into her blazer. “Good game, huh?” He took another step forward and Emma backed up, the concern that had been on her face morphing into something that almost resembled disgust.

“Move, Cap,” Robin muttered, pushing on his shoulder for good measure and Killian nodded as he brushed by Neal and laced his fingers through Emma’s.

“Let’s get out of here, Swan,” Killian said, already half a step into the hallway as he tugged his jersey over his head.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Neal shouted and there were more camera clicks and unanswered questions as he slammed the locker room door shut. “I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Leave me alone, Neal,” Emma yelled, not even bothering to turn around.

“Not you. Killian.”  
  
The entire New York Rangers contingent stopped, turning around in near-perfect time and Neal’s eyes widened. “You know,” he continued, “by himself.”   
  
“No,” Robin and Will said at the same time, matching sounds of disgust in their voice and Ruby actually laughed, the sound of it echoing off the hallway’s walls.

Neal looked nonplussed, obviously certain just saying he wanted to talk to Killian would work – as if they were old friends and Neal’s eyes didn’t keep darting to Emma’s hand, still wrapped up in Killian’s with her laces hitting against her wrist.

“I just, uh, wanted to talk,” Neal added. Emma scoffed. “Maybe ask a couple of questions?”  
  
“I don’t have time for that,” Killian said.

“Just a few minutes?”  
  
“No.”

He didn’t wait for Neal to respond, hardly even paused after the word was out of his mouth before squeezing Emma’s hand slightly and leading some sort of quasi Rangers-parade out of the Staples Center visitors locker room.

“Did you win the bet?” Emma asked softly, pressing up on her toes to mutter the words into his ear.

“How’d you know that happened?”  
  
“Will told Ruby who told Dor who told someone at _SI_ and it ended up online in between the first and second period.”   
  
“Efficient.”   
  
She hummed in the back of her throat and she never actually let go of his hand, even when they moved into the backseat of a team-provided town car with Scarlet in the front seat, muttering under his breath about _being the kid_ on this team.

“What are you guys even playing for?” Emma asked. “I mean if there’s a bet, there’s got to be some kind of prize, right?”  
  
“That reporter yesterday said something about wearing each other’s jerseys, but Scarlet’s changing the rules whenever he sees fit, so who knows.”   
  
“That’s rude, Cap,” Will grumbled, propping his heels up on the dashboard.

“You’re going to scuff that,” Emma said. “Are you really changing the rules though?”  
  
“I have no idea what either one of you is talking about.”   
  
“You should probably write it down. Your point system or however we’re marking this.”

Will pulled his feet back down and twisted around to stare at Emma questioningly. “You know,” he said slowly, “I think you’re just as competitive as Cap is.”  
  
“Maybe,” Emma shrugged and Killian, finally, felt like he was breathing normally again. “Tell me the rules, Scarlet.”   
  
They wrote them down. Or, at least, typed them into Emma’s phone and there was a point system and Emma’s promise that she’d keep track of of every single one of them was still ringing in his ears by the time they opened the hotel room door they weren’t supposed to be sharing.

“You know,” Killian said, turning Emma until she was walking backwards into the room with his hands on her hips. “You were somewhere bordering close to protective in the last two days, love.”  
  
“Was I?” she asked and he’d probably remember how breathless her question was for the next two days they were in that stupid city.

“Bordering close to it.”  
  
“Weird.”   
  
“Absolutely.”

She laughed when her legs hit up against the bed, the smile on her face feeling like it had settled in the pit of his stomach or shot down his spine and Killian brushed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back behind her ears until his hand lingered on her neck. It left goosebumps. That felt like a bit of a victory too.  
  
“So I take it you didn’t win tonight, then?” Emma asked. “The bet, I mean. If Will was just changing up rules.”   
  
“Eh, it almost doesn’t matter.”   
  
“Over-competitive weirdo.”   
  
“Almost always.”   
  
She laughed again, tapping out a rhythm on the front of his jacket. “That’s ok,” Emma said and Killian got the distinct impression they weren’t talking about weird, hockey side bets anymore. “There’s still a lot of series left to play.”   
  
“That’s true.”   
  
“So you can totally beat up on Scarlet.”   
  
“Is it strange that you’re advocating me beating up on my own teammate, Swan?” Killian asked and he didn’t remember actually laying down. Or when Emma’s head landed on his shoulder, just appreciated that it was there and her hand hadn’t moved away from his shirt.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered. “I might be an over-competitive weirdo too.”

“Oh that’s absolutely true.”

Emma smacked at his shoulder and Killian tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her flush against his side and kissing the top of her head. And he didn’t remember when they started kissing _each other_ either, just happy that they were, twisted around in hotel-supplied blankets before they’d even taken their shoes off.

He didn’t care about the story. He didn’t care about Neal. The only thing he’d ever really cared about was the game and, now, Emma Swan.

And there was a lot of series left to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Los Angeles, the hotbed of NHL drama. At least in this world. And Neal is the worst. The absolute worst. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It blows my mind every single time that you guys are so fantastic. @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	40. Chapter 40

She kept her notes app open for all of Game 2. And brought it with her to the press box. Because she had to keep score.

Killian hit someone, Emma barely acknowledging the number on the jersey or the name on the back as she jotted down the updated points total. He was winning. And so were the Rangers.

Midway through the second period and the announcers on the other side of the wall had used the word _offensive explosion_ no less than six times already, a three-goal cushion and Jefferson had notched a handful of vaguely impressive saves.

She didn’t really care about that though.

Emma cared about the rules she’d been tasked with following and the bet she had to keep on track and Killian had scored with two minutes left in the first period. She cared about that too.

“What do you keep writing?” Ruby asked, peering over Emma’s shoulder and scoffing when she realized what she was doing. “Oh my God is that the bet?”

“Yup,” Emma answered and she added another tally to Killian’s side when he forced a turnover.

“I can’t believe they roped you into this. This is ridiculous.”  
  
“This is a good story. And you know it.”  
  
Ruby groaned and she couldn’t really argue. It _was_ a good story. And they’d pushed it for the better part of the last two days hoping to distract from that _other_ story and then the next story and there was another story in _The Los Angeles Times_ that morning, like Killian Jones’ past was any sort of actual news.

Emma had pushed through a sea of reporters to get into the Staples Center a few hours before puck drop – her phone and the rules of the bet clutched tightly in her hand like they were some kind of metaphorical anchor keeping her centered or something – and she only sort of heard the questions, keeping her head down so no one got a picture of her tripping over her feet.

They knew everything.

Or most of everything.

And she would have been impressed by the investigative skills of the greater Los Angeles news contingent if she weren’t also somewhere in the realm of infuriated by it as well.

“We should probably get you some kind of escort out of the arena later,” Ruby continued, eyes staying focused on the ice as the Kings pushed into the zone. Jefferson made the save.

“Or you could not worry about that,” Emma said.

“I’m serious, Em.”  
  
“I know you are, that’s why I’m telling you not to do it. This is so not about me.”  
  
“This is one-hundred percent about you.”  
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows at Ruby’s tone and she still hadn’t turned her head away from the pane of glass in front of her. She texting without even glancing at her phone screen.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Emma asked. “Ah, damnit.”  
  
Will got a penalty – two minutes for tripping and that put him down another five points and he’d be pissed about that later.

“Em, don’t worry about the bet for two seconds,” Ruby said seriously, pulling the pen out of her hand and ignoring her cry at the movement. “Listen. They want to talk to you.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“I mean throw a dart. Everyone. You know I got a request from _People_ this afternoon?”  
  
“ _People_ ,” Emma repeated and her once-lowered eyebrows had practically flown up her forehead. God, their PK was horrible without Scarlet on the ice. Arthur hadn’t stopped pacing in days, at least.

“Yeah, you know like the magazine.”  
  
“A gossip magazine.”  
  
“Well, like a step up from gossip magazine. But them too. _US Weekly_ is very determined.” Ruby pointed at her phone screen as it buzzed again and Emma’s mouth fell open, the bet momentarily forgotten in a rush of stunned silence.

“That’s insane,” she sputtered. “What would they want with me?”  
  
“Exactly what the other story was only bigger and with actual quotes from you instead of some anonymous source who was willing to discuss your NHL dating history.”  
  
“None of that was true,” Emma mumbled, shifting uncomfortably her seat and Ruby nodded sympathetically. “And still no idea who the source was?”  
  
Ruby shook her head. “I don’t know who’d make all of that up. And even a shitty gossip site like that one isn’t just going to give up their sources. There are rules.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you.”

“So then where is this going?”

Ruby groaned, slumping down in the chair and twisting the ends of her hair around one finger. “They’re going to be waiting for you when you leave.”  
  
“They were waiting for me when I got here,” Emma argued and they’d managed to get out of the penalty without giving up a goal. Still winning.

She needed to pay more attention.

“What?” Ruby snapped, nearly jumping out of the chair. Six different reporters glanced at her. She brushed them off quickly, taking a step towards Emma until she was practically leaning over her, both hands on her shoulders and a worried expression on her face.

“What?” Emma repeated. “It was fine. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even fall over.”

“What did they ask you?”

Emma shrugged and Ruby’s grip on her shoulders tightened. “I wasn’t really listening. Something about my laces. They keep asking about my laces. And maybe something about LA and the Kings?” She shrugged again. Ruby looked murderous. “What am I missing?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Ruby said slowly, chewing on her lower lip as her eyes moved across the room, staring at reporters like one of them was about to sell Emma out.

“You look like you’re about to start just breaking people’s recorders,” Emma said, doing her best not to laugh.

Ruby would probably kill her if she started to laugh.

This was insane.

She had a side-bet point system to keep on track and post-game SnapChats to send out and tweets about that same side-point system.

The fans really liked the side-bet point system.

Good. That had been the point.

“No one uses actual recorders anymore,” Ruby muttered. “I just feel like I’m missing something here. Something big.”  
  
“Seems awfully conspiracy theory doesn’t it?”  
  
“Mary Margaret agrees with me.”

Emma’s foot slammed onto the floor, shoulders rolling out of instinct and she hadn’t even noticed that the second period had ended. They were still winning.

“I’m sorry what,” Emma whispered and she appreciated how quickly Ruby blinked in response. “Are you talking to Mary Margaret about this?”  
  
“I thought you would, honestly. Or at least David. He’s the one who said we should get someone to walk out with you.”

She pressed her lips together tightly so she didn’t actually start yelling in the middle of the press box and Ruby kept blinking, sinking back into her chair slowly like she was nervous anything quicker would actually cause Emma to descend completely into madness.

It was close.

“This is insane,” Emma repeated and she couldn’t come up with another word. People were throwing t-shirts into the stands and the sound of fingers hitting laptop keys had never been louder in the history of the entire world, she was certain.

Ruby hummed in agreement and she didn’t look quite as nervous anymore, seemingly a bit more confident after Emma didn’t immediately start throwing things.  “I know it is,” she said, reaching out to rest her hand on Emma’s knee.

“But you don’t have a reason for it? I mean, I almost get the stuff about Killian, but this is...”

She trailed off, not entirely able to say _why me_ out loud without actually feeling like she was twelve years old. They’d brought out t-shirt guns now and something that might have been a cannon. The fans were very enthusiastic. And loud.

And Emma couldn’t really think anymore.

She wanted to go back to New York. She wanted to get out Los Angeles. She wanted to win a goddamn Stanley Cup.  
  
“No,” Ruby sighed. “I mean I get the Killian stuff. I’ve never met Gold, but I’ve done some talking and some questioning and the general consensus seems to be he’s just an absolutely enormous dick.”  
  
Emma scoffed and her laugh was shaky at best and, well, there wasn’t another word except _insane_ for any of this.

“That’s the general consensus then?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded. “You really asked about Gold?” Another nod. “Why?”  
  
Ruby rolled her eyes and she’d never actually taken her hand off Emma’s knee. “You’ve got people in your corner,” she said easily and, maybe, just a bit intently. “Not just the captain of this stupid team. All of them. And me. Who wants some answers.”  
  
Emma was like some kind of Stanley Cup Finals Grinch – heart growing three sizes, at least, in the middle of the Staples Center press box – and she blinked quickly because this conversation was bordering on the edge of emotional.

“We’re not LA,” Ruby added softly and, well, maybe that was the moral of the season. “And thank God for that because, in addition to figuring out some shit about Gold, I’ve been told pretty much everyone here hates their job.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Oh yeah, like, hates it hates it. I guess Gold brought in all these new people and they didn’t _gel_ and they won games, but it was mostly just right place at the right time down the stretch of the regular season. Plus the West is a garbage conference.”  
  
“That’s your professional opinion, then?”

“Quote me,” Ruby said. “Except, you know, don’t. Because I want to keep my job.”

Emma laughed and it wasn’t quite as shaky as it had been before, eyes flashing to the ice when the players started skating again and they were twenty minutes away from splitting the opening two games.

“Speaking of jobs,” Emma said. “How did you figure all this stuff out about Gold while also doing your job?”  
  
“Maybe I’m just that impressive.”  
  
“I mean, yeah, sure, but also that’s a lot of investigative work on your part, Rubes.”  
  
“Did you miss the part when I said people like you?”  
  
“Ruby.”  
  
She groaned, scrunching her nose and Emma did her best to try and stay patient. “Dor knows people, obviously. So she asked around and a guy who writes for the _AP_  and used to write for _SI_ and he’s friends with someone on the _Times_ sports copy desk.”  
  
“And they know Gold?”  
  
“Nah, they know someone who actually writes for the _Times_ sports department and they mentioned that Gold would barely do interviews after he bought the team. I guess he’s not really into being on camera.”  
  
“Maybe he’s a vampire,” Emma muttered and the game had started again. A shot hit the crossbar and Killian was up against the boards, trying to find traction on his skates and they’d never come up with a point marker if you _got_ hit.

She hoped his hand was ok. He hadn’t actually said it, but he’d gotten hit hard in Game 1 and it was still somewhere in the realm of purple when they’d woken up that morning. Emma texted Ariel about it.

“That might make sense,” Ruby shrugged, smiling that very particular type of smile at Emma. “We could run with that story, probably. I know some people.”  
  
“Media relations extraordinaire.”  
  
“You flatter me.”  
  
Emma laughed and she almost wasn’t worried about the apparent horde of reporters that would be waiting for her as soon as she walked out of the Staples Center and they hadn’t really come to any sort of conclusion on that front.

She didn’t have time to think about that.

There was still a community to relate to and a fan event before Game 3 in front of the Garden and Merida had left that morning on a non-stop flight to JFK to try and get some sort of jump on the planning.

Emma had started carrying around one of those portable phone chargers to make sure she was in constant contact and it didn’t seem to matter because her phone was probably just going to combust at some point, vibrating almost violently on the table in front of her.

“How goes the planning?” Ruby asked knowingly, one eyebrow lifted. “Any more tent debacles?”  
  
“There haven’t been any tent debacles at all this season,” Emma argued. Another point for Killian. Will was going to be furious with how badly he was going to lose.

Ruby’s smile widened. “Exactly.”  
  
“Was this supposed to be some kind of lesson?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“A bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?”  
  
“Nah, you’re you, so this kind of had to play out this way.”  
  
“That’s rude.”  
  
“Insert something about you growing as a person or some other nonsense. I don’t know, ask Killian’s mom to supply you with some kind of cliché for this situation.”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly, but there was a smile on her face too and this team knew far too much about each other’s lives away from the ice and out of the arena and it was, maybe, kind of perfect.

Or some other cliché.

She’d asked Mrs. Vankald when she got back to New York. They had tickets to Game 3.

“When did you talk to Reese’s?” Emma asked. “Or David for that matter.”  
  
“At the same time. They come as some kind of pre-packaged deal, don’t they?”  
  
“They’re trying to finish wedding stuff,” Emma reasoned, but she couldn’t even really argue it anymore. Killian had been right before. They were some kind of pair.

“Yesterday,” Ruby said, brushing over wedding details and she still wasn’t happy about the blue dresses they were slated to wear in two and a half weeks. “Mary Margaret called me, by the way. So be mad at her. Because someone at school saw the story about Killian and asked her about it.”  
  
“Someone was asking Reese’s about hockey?”  
  
“Did she not tell you she bought a t-shirt?” Emma shook her head. “Oh yeah,” Ruby continued. “She’s all in on this fandom thing now. I think since we’re both here and you’re, you know, painfully in love with Cap, she figured she’d dive into the deep end of fandom. Her kids think it’s hysterical.”  
  
Emma gaped at Ruby who just kept staring at her like this was the most obvious thing in the entire world. It kind of was.

She’d have to add that to her maid of honor speech as well.

“Painfully in love,” Emma repeated, muttering the words, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to even sound bitter.

“Painfully.”

She scoffed, turning back towards the ice and the Kings could barely keep the puck on their sticks, let alone work their way into the zone. Offensive explosion seemed like the best description for this game.

They didn’t say anything for what felt like the rest of the game and it was practically over by the time they hit the five-minute mark. Killian was absolutely destroying Will on the side-bet front. They’d have to get him a Jones jersey.

And maybe a hat.

Definitely a hat.

“Emma?”

She spun around at the sound of the voice and he probably shouldn’t have been in the press box because he wasn’t media relations, but it had been that kind of day and, so far, that kind of series, so it only made sense for Neal to be calling her name from the doorway with just over three and a half minutes left to play.

The Kings pulled their goalie.

Emma didn’t move, just straightened her shoulders and lifted her eyebrows and Neal scuffed his feet on the carpet.

They had black carpet in the Staples Center. The Kings were, easily, the worst team in the entire league.

“Can, I, uh, talk to you,” Neal continued, scratching the edge of his thumb against his cheek. Emma tilted her head when she heard Ruby laughing, a soft, sarcastic sound that was about as good as a response as she could come up with herself.

Neal tried to smile, but it didn’t really work – he looked like he was in pain. He blinked and Emma was momentarily concerned he was actually going to cut his cheek.

That didn’t last long.

“Just a couple minutes,” Neal mumbled. “Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe?” Emma repeated sharply and Neal actually took a step back.

“Well, it’s a couple of different things.”  
  
Ruby stood up, arms crossed tightly over her chest and Emma wasn’t entirely unconvinced that she wasn’t shooting lasers at Neal.

“I’ve got stuff to do,” Emma said. “There’s this kind of important game going on.”  
  
“Your guys side bet?” Neal asked, laughing softly at his own question and Emma chanced a glance at Ruby. She’d absolutely come up with six different ways to kill Neal in the middle of the press box.

“Don’t be an ass,” Ruby hissed.

Emma groaned, neck snapping when she twisted it between her shoulders. “What do you want?”  
  
“To talk to you,” Neal said and he sounded almost depressing. “C’mon Ems, it’s important.”  
  
“I have a job to do.”  
  
“A couple of minutes. I just…” He trailed off, waving his hands in the air and something was wrong. Emma shifted uncomfortably on her feet, whole body twisting around when she heard the crowd start yelling again and the Kings hadn’t actually scored, but it must have been close.

“Two minutes,” Emma said. “You’ve got two minutes and that’s it. I’ve got post stuff to do.”  
  
“So do I.”  
  
“Fine.”

She brushed past him – still taking up a ridiculous amount of space in the doorway and Emma resisted the very real effort to knock her shoulder against his. She was an adult. A professional adult.

And she didn’t care about Neal Cassidy.

Not anymore.

“You coming?” Emma shouted, glancing over her shoulder when Neal didn’t follow her immediately. He nodded, jogging towards her and pushing open a door in the corner that she hadn’t actually noticed before, stepping into the stairwell without a word.

“You coming,” Neal repeated, one side of his mouth pulled up. She wanted to slap it off.

“Are you serious?”  
  
“I’m not going to murder you in a stairwell, Em. Come on.”  
  
She took a deep breath, tapping out a rhythm against her wrist and Neal’s eyes widened a bit when they dropped down to her laces. Neal sank onto the top stair, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck and every single one of Emma’s muscles felt tight or maybe heavy and this was already an exhausting conversation.

“You going to sit down?” Neal asked, glancing at Emma.

“Nope.”  
  
“Ems.”  
  
“Nope,” she said again, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. “Don’t do that. You don’t get nicknames anymore. You get two minutes and then I’ve got to go back to work.”  
  
“And back to Jones,” he added softly and Emma’s narrowed.

“That too.”  
  
“When did that start?”  
  
“That is so far out of the realm of your business it’s not even funny,” Emma said. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? Because that’s petty, even for you.”  
  
“Even for me?”

“You left, Neal,” she snapped. “Years ago. Actual years. And you took my job and you acted like it was totally fine and not your fault and it was. It was absolutely your fault. So, yeah, even for you seems like a pretty fair assessment of the situation right now.”

He didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity, eyes boring a hole into the space of stair in between his shoes and Emma did her best not to start pacing.

There wasn’t that much space in the stairwell.

“That’s true,” Neal mumbled and Emma’s shoulders heaved with the force of her deep breath.

“What is the point of this?”  
  
“They’re going to run something tomorrow.”  
  
“What?”

Neal took a deep breath and he was going to do permanent damage to his neck if he held it any tighter. “One of those ridiculous sites,” he said quickly, rushing over the words as if that would make any of this less absurd. “They’re going to run something.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“You.”  
  
Emma stopped moving, leaning against the wall and the stairwell, somehow, seemed to get smaller. “What aren’t you saying right now?”  
  
“It’s not good, Ems.”  
  
“What could they possibly say? I’m not on the ice. I haven’t even answered any of their questions!”  
  
“Yeah, about that,” Neal continued and his voice seemed to echo in her head. Or maybe off the walls.

It all made sense quickly – Emma was half certain she could _feel_ her brain putting the pieces together – and Neal pressed up off the stair, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shooting her something that might have been apologetic.

“It’s you isn’t it,” she accused. Neal grimaced. “You’re the source, aren’t you? God fucking dammit, Neal. What did you say?”  
  
“You didn’t read the story?”  
  
“Of course I didn’t read the story! I’m trying to focus on my job. I’ve got a job to do and a team to promote and media requests to help Ruby with. Shit, Ruby is drowning in media requests and half the reason for that is you!”  
  
Her shoulders were heaving again and she couldn’t take a deep breath, blinking quickly to stop the emotion she could feel welling in the corners of her eyes. “Why would you do it?” Emma pressed. “An anonymous source? That’s just…”  
  
“I know,” Neal muttered. “I know, I know. And you’re right. It’s total shit.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
Neal smirked and Emma glared at him, pressing her heels into the concrete floor underneath her. She’d missed the end of the game. And she’d stopped keeping track of side-bet points.

“I want an answer,” Emma continued. “Why did you come to Los Angeles?”  
  
“It was an opportunity.”  
  
“You worked for the league!”  
  
“Yeah, as some kind of lackey. The league job was a step down from what I was doing with the Preds and I’d only taken it for the title and, well, you kept moving up. You were in charge of this whole department and Los Angeles might not be Original Six, but it’s an enormous market. I was, well, I was jealous.”  
  
“You realize how childish that sounds, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Neal nodded. “Doesn’t change the facts though. I wanted back in. I wanted some control and a department and I’ve known Gold since he had the Islanders. Interned with them while I was at school and I made some calls as soon as he came out here.”  
  
“So you straight up lied to my face then.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“When they fired me, they told me it was just _business_ , but it wasn’t. Not for you. It was personal. You wanted my job and you told me you didn’t. God, you’re even more of a fucking asshole than I thought you were.”  
  
Neal’s jaw dropped and he looked like he was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to run away from Emma. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry with the realization and _fuck Los Angeles_.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“I don’t care.”  
  
“It’s not like it didn’t work out. You landed in New York and you’ve got Jones following you around like some kind of goal-scoring puppy.”  
  
“Shut up, Neal,” Emma murmured. “Why the anonymous source? Just to screw me over some more?”  
  
“No, no, this is all kind of new.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Gold hates Jones. Despises him. Even if the divorce was close to being finalized, he doesn’t believe it. But there wasn’t really anything he could do except put out some fake rumors about wanting to pick him in FA.”  
  
“You know how insane that sounds?” Emma shouted and she was treading dangerously close to breakdown. She couldn’t see straight, everything tinged red as she tried to will herself to stop shaking.

“Jones stole his wife,” Neal said evenly as if he’d rehearsed that line several times in front of his bathroom mirror.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“Didn’t you know that?”  
  
“That’s not a question you get to ask. And not true either. God, Neal are you crazy?”

She was still shaking and Neal’s eyes darted back to her laces, mouth twisting into a sneer as the fabric shifted on her wrist. “It wasn’t right,” he muttered.

“It happened years ago! What does any of this have to do with me? And what is this story about tomorrow?”

Neal rocked back on his heels again and Emma still couldn’t quite take a deep breath. “This is all kind of a new plan,” he said again, ignoring her groan when he started rehash old points. “After all-stars and you two hadn’t made Page Six yet, but you got out of that car together and it was almost painfully obvious. He kept touching you and you had those,” Neal nodded towards her wrist, “on and as soon as I told you about him maybe coming here, I knew.”  
  
“Knew what?”  
  
“That you were in, Ems. All in. In a way we never were.”  
  
“So, what? This is repayment for that? You left. That was your choice, not mine.”  
  
“I made a mistake,” Neal said quickly and, maybe, just a bit desperately. “And I thought when you were here for all-stars, you’d want to talk or get coffee or something and you didn’t. You kept staring at Jones and letting him do whatever and then there were more rumors and that whole subReddit thing.”  
  
“You’re reading the Rangers subReddit?” Emma scoffed.

This was an alternate universe. She’d stumbled into some weird portal in this stairwell and this was an alternate version of Los Angeles and any sort of actual reality she’d ever encountered.

That was the only explanation for whatever was happening.

“It was kind of a perfect PR storm, you know?” Neal asked and Emma didn’t know. She had no response for whatever twisted situation this was.

“You are not making any sense.”  
  
“It all timed up perfectly. The fans were certain you were a distraction already and there was talk about what would happen if Jones didn’t sign and it made sense. Gold loved it.”  
  
“Say actual words, Neal!”

She’d stomped her foot and it actually hurt, pain shooting its way up her shin and maybe into the back of her head and there was more tension in between her shoulders than Emma realized could actually exist in a real, human body.

“Gold came up with it. They’d tried to bury the story after it happened. The accident and Milah and it was _embarrassing_ for him, but not the way we wanted to spin it. Time that up with the distraction talk and that skid he was on and it was almost too easy.”  
  
The air rushed out of Emma’s mouth loudly and she wasn’t quite sure how she was still managing to support her own weight when her legs felt like they were made of jello. She needed to get into the locker room. She needed to get out of this stairwell.

She shook her head slowly, refusing to process what did, actually, make sense and Neal kept staring at her.

“He wanted something off the ice,” Neal added. “Something that was a real distraction and you two were perfect.”  
  
Emma scoffed. “That’s the part I don’t understand. Why both of us? I’m not actually on this team.”  
  
“Ems, please,” Neal said, brushing her off quickly and easily and if she blinked it could have seven seasons before in Vancouver. “It had to be both of you. The stuff with Milah was enough to distract Jones, keep him off his game and worried and it’d, hopefully, snap that point streak he had coming in here.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But if we added you and wrote about you and what you went through, then it would completely throw him off his game. It’d throw this whole team off its game. Just look at Lucas. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me.”  
  
“I’d take that threat seriously,” Emma said and she was going to rip her laces in half if she kept tugging on them.

“Ah, I don’t know about that.”  
  
“What did you mean?”  
  
“When?”  
  
“You said what I went through,” she muttered, stomach flipping at the idea of what was coming next. “What are you talking about?”  
  
He sighed softly and for half a moment it looked like he regretted what he was about to say. That look disappeared as soon as he met Emma’s gaze. “The houses, Ems. And foster care and bouncing around and I think they found some kid you lived with in North Carolina to talk if they paid him enough. That’s what tomorrow’s story is. You and the past and your desperate search to find some kind of home.”

“I did,” Emma argued, voice low and the words felt like knives when she said them, cutting up her lips and her throat and her eyes were glassy.

“Not if Jones leaves. And this story isn’t really concerned with any of that. I think they took a kind of stereotypical approach.” Emma shook her head again, trying to will this conversation to end or maybe never happen and they’d split in LA. That was the only thing that mattered.

“Gold-digger stuff,” he added, like she was still listening to a single word he was saying. “Trying to find a home in Jones’ max deal. Kind of obvious, but I didn’t write the story.”

Emma pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and Neal shrugged. That did it.

“You’re an ass,” she said, practically growling out the words.

“I warned you. I didn’t have to do that.”  
  
“Please, you did it to make yourself feel better. It’s not like you tried to stop the story.”  
  
“I’d have lost my job if I did that.”  
  
“That brings us back to square one of this argument.”  
  
“They’re not going to sign him after this,” Neal argued. “Even if they win the Cup. This is a PR mess for the Rangers and half the reason Ruby wanted to kill me was _because_ of this, because she’s swamped with requests and it’s not going to stop. This whole series, Ems. Gold’s got a plan and he’s going to make sure Jones is on the short end of it.”  
  
She huffed out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding, narrowing her eyes and Neal took another step back out of instinct. “Fuck you,” Emma said, turning on her heels and pushing back out the door and into the abandoned hallway outside the press box.

She was too far away from the locker room.

Emma needed to find an elevator to get to the locker room. Or maybe just outside. There wasn’t enough oxygen inside the Staples Center.

There were reporters outside the Staples Center.

She couldn’t leave the Staples Center.

God _fucking_ damnit.

Emma’s finger felt like it snapped as she hit on the elevator button and she was breathing now, but it wasn’t easy – quick pants that were just making her lungs hurt. She ran her hand over her face, tapping impatiently for the elevator to get to whatever floor she was on and she all but sprinted into it when the doors opened.

It took far too long to get to the bottom floor and the sound of her tapping foot echoed in the otherwise empty elevator – some kind of audible reminder of being _alone_ and that was just stupid.

She wasn’t alone.

She was fine. Everything was fine. Or it would be fine. And maybe David had a point – maybe she shouldn’t leave the Staples Center on her own.

Emma was almost close to confident and maybe just a bit positive, fingers looped through her laces as she took a step towards the locker room and she _heard_ them snap. Her breath caught in her throat and, well, it had to happen eventually – tugging on them constantly like some sort of emotional life vest and her mouth hung open as she stared at the slightly broken equipment in her palm.

“Fuck,” Emma mumbled, clenching her hand tightly until she could feel her nails pressing into skin. She turned on the spot, back towards another stairwell and if she didn’t sit down, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay standing up.

Emma winced at the sound of the door hitting the wall and collapsed onto the bottom stair, legs twisted up awkwardly underneath her as she tried to pull her phone out of her pocket. What time was it? It had to be late.

Puck drop at six western time, meant nine eastern time and the game had lasted...two hours? Two and a half? Three? It was nearly midnight at home.

Her fingers moved over the screen anyway. It barely rang once before Mary Margaret answered.  
  
“Emma?” she asked, concern obvious even on the other side of the country. “Are you ok?”  
  
“How do you know I’m not ok?”  
  
“It’s midnight and you won. I figured you’d be swamped with work stuff.”  
  
“I am,” Emma admitted. “I’m just...not doing it.”  
  
Mary Margaret made a noise on the other end, something sounded a bit like surprise and maybe confusion and David yelled something she couldn’t quite understand. “What did David just say?” Emma asked.

“Talk to security,” David shouted, not even waiting for Mary Margaret to answer. “Get them to walk you out so you don’t get hounded by assholes again.”  
  
“David,” Mary Margaret sighed and Emma slumped against the step behind her.

“Fine, fine,” he corrected quickly. “They’re not assholes. They’re doing their job. Em, make sure they don’t do their job.”  
  
She took a deep breath and the stair was probably going to leave a bruise in her back. Maybe she should talk to Ariel. God, she still needed to get post-game video.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said softly, jolting her back to reality and she’d never actually explained why she’d called.  
  
“Still here.”  
  
“Is everything ok?”  
  
“No,” she whispered and there were tears on her face. She’d broken her laces.

“What happened?”  
  
“I talked to Neal.”  
  
She must have been on speaker phone because David started yelling again and Mary Margaret was trying to _shush_ him and none of it was doing much to help settle whatever storm of feelings was raging in the pit of Emma’s stomach.

“And I can’t really stop the assholes from doing their job,” Emma continued, cutting into the argument and the line went silent immediately.

“Why?” David asked sharply.

“Because they’ve already done it. It’s going to run tomorrow, I guess. That’s what I was talking to Neal about.”  
  
“Neal knew?” Mary Margaret whispered and Emma nodded, hair brushing up against the side of the phone.

“Yeah.”

Emma shrugged, not really sure what to say and David was swearing again – words very obvious despite the fact that he seemed to be stomping across the apartment floor as well. Mary Margaret didn’t even try and quiet him.

She might have started swearing as well and Emma nearly choked on the minimal amount of air she was breathing when she heard the word _dick_ muttered angrily on the other end of the phone.

“Reese’s,” Emma muttered, but the tirade didn’t end and it took three more tries before Mary Margaret actually stopped cursing Neal to a variety of different, and graphic, locations.

“Yeah, sorry, sorry,” Mary Margaret said quickly and David hummed in the background. “I just...I can’t believe that.”  
  
“Come home, Em,” David added. “Take a red eye back tonight.”  
  
“I can’t,” Emma argued. “I’ve got work to do and I don’t want…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Mary Margaret made another noise – and this one sounded like understanding. “She doesn’t want Killian to worry.”  
  
“Mind reader,” Emma accused.

“Yeah, well, I know you.”  
  
The door swung open and Emma nearly dropped her phone, pressing her nails even tighter into her hand until she was certain she’d actually managed to cut herself as well. Will Scarlet blinked at her once, jerking back slightly when he realized she was sitting there – crying.

She was still crying.

“Emma?” he asked and she waved. She actually _waved_. God, she needed to go home. “What,” Will continued, scuffing his foot against the floor. “What are you doing in here? You know Cap was looking for you.”

He must have just gotten out of the shower, hair still wet and there were droplets of moisture on his forehead. He was holding his phone.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the questions in her ear as she tried to pull her fingers out of the fist they were still in.

“Um,” she mumbled. “Just, um, talking to Reese’s.” She pointed at the phone – or at least tried to. She still hadn’t let go of her laces.

“Everything ok?”

She was going to nod. She was going to lie. She was going to promise it was as _fine_ as she’d nearly convinced herself it was, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to do it, couldn’t actually move an inch and Mary Margaret was still talking in her ear.

Will pressed his lips together and stuffed his phone back in his pocket, reaching forward slowly to tug Emma’s phone out of her hands. “Hey, Mary Margaret,” he said calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the tears still falling down her cheeks. “Yeah, you’re right this isn’t Emma. No, she’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, right, Emma?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Emma agreed, not entirely what she was agreeing to.

“Of course not," Will continued. “Nope. Absolutely not. Yeah, he’s doing post now. You eat yet, Emma?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Food. Did you eat during the game?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What,” he snapped, eyebrows pulled low and Emma wasn’t certain what to do with a suddenly concerned-about-her Will Scarlet. “Why not?”

“Um, well, I was busy.”  
  
“That’s a lame excuse. Yeah, don’t worry about it Mary Margaret, I got it.”  
  
He hung up the phone – after answering half a dozen more questions and he kept saying _yeah_ and _sure_ and _don’t worry_ and this was the _strangest_ alternate universe. Emma held her hand out expectantly for her phone and Will grinned at her when he dropped it in her outstretched palm.  
  
“How come you didn’t eat?” he asked. “There’s food in the press box.”  
  
Emma sighed. “I told you already. I was busy.”  
  
“Too busy to make it to post?”  
  
“Are you checking up on me, Scarlet?”  
  
“No,” he answered, crossing his arms over his team-branded t-shirt. “At least not technically.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re a giant liar is what you are. You and Cap.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t Killian be fine?” Will narrowed his eyes, tilting his head and staring at Emma speculatively. “I mean besides all this Gold shit.”  
  
“I wasn’t talking about all this Gold shit. Did you not see the game?”  
  
Emma’s heart stopped or maybe sped up and she hissed in her breath when her nails pushed into her palm again. “What happened?”  
  
“I mean nothing big, really. We won. And he scored. Hey, you got the scoresheet on you? I’m pretty certain I lost, but I’d like to see the numbers in person.”  
  
“Were you keeping track of your side-bet during the game?”  
  
“Eh, only kind of,” Will shrugged. “You don’t have it do you?”

Emma shook her head. “I left it in the press box. I, uh, well I kind of got distracted.”  
  
“And that’s why you didn’t see the end of the game?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You want to talk about it?”  
  
“What?” Emma asked, nearly shouting the question at Will. He laughed softly, ducking his head as he moved next to her.

“Just a question.”  
  
“You didn’t like me,” she said and it still sounded like an accusation. “But then you went and fought Soyer because he was talking about me in the con finals.”  
  
“Only one of those things is true.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
Will laughed again and he tapped his finger on her still-clenched fist. “What are you holding on to so tightly?”  
  
It felt like a much bigger question than it was, something important in just a few words and Emma bit her lip. “My laces,” she muttered. “I ripped my laces.”  
  
“You tug on them a lot.”  
  
“You noticed that?”  
  
“Everyone’s noticed that. You guys are awful at not acting like you’re super into each other.”  
  
“Ruby said painfully in love.”  
  
“Ah, well,” Will said. “Lucas is better with words than I am.”  
  
“Insert cliché about actions speaking louder than words here.”  
  
His whole body shook when he laughed again, the sound working its way in between them and his shoulder brushed against Emma’s when he moved. “Was it about this Gold shit?” he asked. “Why you left?”

“Yeah.”  
  
Will let out a low whistle or maybe a sigh and he didn’t really have enough hair to actually run his fingers through it, but he tried anyway. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered.

“Yeah, that’s the general opinion at this point.”  
  
“I can’t beat anybody up, can I?” Will asked and he hadn’t moved his shoulder away from Emma’s, ignoring his now-ringing phone.

“It’s not anyone on the ice.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
“Exactly,” Emma laughed. “Although I do appreciate the thought.”  
  
“Ah, well it’s the thought that counts.”  
  
“That was a good cliché!”  
  
“You spend enough time around Mrs. V, you’ll start to pick up on these things.”  Emma hummed noncommittally and she wasn’t sure she was entirely ready to start having _that_ kind of conversation with Will Scarlet. He didn’t seem to care. “You should you know,” he added. “Spend some more time around Mrs. V and the entire Vankald family and, well, Cap. In general.”  
  
“In general?”  
  
“Or, you know, indefinitely.”  
  
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Emma said and if there was a sign on her forehead flashing the word _liar_ over and over again, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Sure,” Will agreed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course not.”  
  
The door slammed open again and Killian’s eyes widened when he took in the scene in front of him – Will’s shoulder still pressed against Emma’s arm and the tear tracks on her cheeks and someone’s phone was ringing again.

“Answer Belle,” Emma muttered, bumping her arm against Will’s side. “I’m fine.”  
  
Will clicked his tongue skeptically and Killian still hadn’t moved, door propped open behind him with the back of his foot. “Hey Cap,” he muttered. “Look, I found her.”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said slowly and Emma was concerned they’d done permanent damage to the wall behind the door. “I can see that.”  
  
Will made another noise, shooting a glance Emma’s direction as he moved towards the door, grabbing his phone out of his pocket as he moved. “We’re getting food soon,” he shouted. “So, you know, keep that in mind.”  
  
“Idiot,” Killian mumbled, but he was almost smiling. Emma wiped the back of her hand against her cheeks, tugging on skin and blinking quickly to try and get rid of the evidence and she knew, immediately, it didn’t work – Killian’s eyebrows pulled low and his shoulders set and he didn’t actually sit down next to her.

“I was worried,” he said.

Emma sighed. “Yeah, I know.” She glanced up at him, pulling her hair over her shoulder and made some sort of ridiculous noise in the back of throat, jumping up and reaching out instinctively.

She dropped her laces.

“What happened?” Emma asked sharply, fingers hovering just over his mouth and she barely make out the stitches underneath his lip. It wasn’t messy – Victor was good at his job, after all – but it looked _fresh_ and it must have hurt.

“Ah, they pulled their goalie, which was stupid, you know, we were up by three.”

Emma smiled and she took another step forward, the front of her heels brushing up against Killian’s league-mandated dress shoes and his hand fell on her waist. “That wasn’t an answer,” she muttered. “And they have to pull the goalie, those are the rules.”  
  
“Not a rule, Swan. A suggestion.”  
  
“What happened to your face?”  
  
“Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with my face?”  
  
“You know exactly what I’m suggesting,” she laughed and they’d all been given far too much Finals merch. He was wearing a brand-new shirt. “Did you get hit?”  
  
“A stick.”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“A stick hit me,” Killian explained, rolling his eyes. “They pulled the goalie and everyone in front of the net and Jeff couldn’t get his glove on the puck. So people were hitting and trying to get position and somebody’s stick got in my way.”

“In _your_ way.”

“Obviously.”  
  
Emma gripped the front of his shirt and she knew he was still worried, his eyebrows pulled low and his lips set a very certain way – although that might have been because of the stitches too. “You’re ok though?” she asked and her voice might have shaken slightly.

“Fine,” Killian promised. “It happens. Couple of stitches and Victor yelling at me about learning how to move in front of the net and Red wasn’t very pleased either.”  
  
“Do you get PT for a busted lip?”  
  
“She was worried about my jaw.”  
  
Emma hummed, eyes scanning his face like she was taking stock of it – checking for bruises or other cuts and she wasn’t even remotely qualified to do any of that.

“You won, by the way,” Emma said and Killian widened his eyes in confusion. “The side-bet thing. You absolutely destroyed Will.”  
  
“That penalty probably cost him.”  
  
“It did.”  
  
Killian hadn’t ever moved his hand off her waist, the other one coming up to wrap around her wrist and he smiled when his eyes met hers. “You going to tell me what happened, now?”  
  
“I feel like there should have been a line,” Emma sighed. “Everyone wanted to know. I’m surprised Ruby hasn’t barged in here too.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
Emma groaned, head rolling back and forth and she threw both her hands in the air when she realized her laces were still sitting in a small pile on the floor behind her. Killian made a noise when she moved, bending down to grab the laces and she blinked quickly when she turned back towards him.

“I broke my laces,” she muttered. “Kept pulling on them.”  
  
Killian wrapped his fingers around hers lightly – he was still smiling. “What happened, love?”  
  
“Neal’s the source.”  
  
His grip tightened slightly and he rolled his shoulders back, suddenly looking taller and just a bit more intimidating than Emma could ever remember seeing him. She could see him swallow and it was probably good he hadn’t actually hurt his jaw because he probably would have snapped it, clenching it tightly as the anger practically rolled off him.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “Wanted to tell me or let me know that there’s a story coming out tomorrow or something. He’s an ass.”  
  
“There’s a story coming out tomorrow?”  
  
She shrugged. “That site that keeps running all of it. They’re, uh, they’re going to write about me. I guess.”  
  
“You?”  
  
“Yeah,” she continued and the word felt scratchy in her throat. God, she was starving. “And me growing up and I guess I’m not just a distraction anymore, I’m some kind of gold-digger too because, according to Neal, I’m only after you for your max deal.”  
  
“Fucking asshole,” Killian growled and it was good he’d changed because Emma wasn’t certain _she_ wouldn’t have been just a bit intimidated by the combination of that voice and a full NHL uniform.

“I’m not,” Emma said quickly, pressing her palm flat against his chest. She could almost feel him relax. That felt important.

“You’re not what?”  
  
“Using you for your max-deal potential. Just for the record, as it were.”  
  
Killian scoffed and Emma bit her lip when he tugged her hand up towards his lips, brushing against her knuckles. Maybe Ruby sent out the post-game SnapChats. She hoped so.

“Ah, well, if you were you wouldn’t be doing a very good job, would you?” Killian murmured. “No deal in sight yet.”  
  
“That’s not true and you know it. A split in LA is huge.”  
  
“Good PR response, Swan.”  
  
“An honest one.”  
  
“That works too.”  
  
She couldn’t really kiss him – far too aware of the stitches and his possibly injured jaw – but her hand found its way to his cheek, resting on a ridiculously long playoff beard and Emma knew she didn’t imagine him leaning into the touch.

Good.

“No one will care,” Killian said. “That story and the site and whatever source Neal wants to pretend to be. No one on this team will care. I won’t. Although I might kill Neal.”  
  
“You and David can tag-team it.”  
  
“That’s fair. And he texted me twice while I was walking over here.”  
  
“Overprotective idiot.”  
  
“Nah,” Killian argued and he clearly didn’t care about his stitches as much as Emma did because he kissed _her_ , lips ghosting over hers quickly. She had to stop herself from pushing back against him, digging her heels into the concrete underneath her. “People care about you, Swan. Mary Margaret, David, Scarlet, even Locksley asked where you were during post.”  
  
“You,” Emma chanced and she wasn’t certain when her heart started beating so loudly.  
  
“Me,” Killian agreed. “If not slightly differently.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah, well, I love you. A painful amount, I was informed earlier,  so that seems like some kind of other level of care.”  
  
Emma laughed – a real, honest laugh and the smile on her face didn’t feel quite as strange as she expected it to. “You talked to Ruby didn’t you?”  
  
“Interrupted her post-game SnapChat sending process.”  
  
“She didn’t have to do that.”  
  
“She said you were busy.”  
  
“Yeah, having some sort of emotional breakdown over broken laces.”

“We can get you new laces, Swan.”  
  
“It’s not the same,” she mumbled and Killian laughed at her, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he tugged her against his chest.

“Of course not.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath, nose scrunched against his t-shirt and he smelled like _him_ – post-game shower and something she couldn’t quite name and, God, he was warm all the time. There was probably a reason for that, something scientific that Emma absolutely did not care about and he laughed softly when she burrowed further against him, arm tightening again until his fingers were trailing across the bottom of her spine.

The door was going to fly off its hinges if they all kept slamming it that much and Robin stared at his shoes when he walked into the stairwell. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered.

“You’re not interrupting anything, Locksley,” Killian laughed. “Relax.”  
  
“We’re just going to get some food and Lucas seemed certain Emma hadn’t eaten yet.”  
  
“You didn’t eat yet, Swan?” Killian asked, pulling back to stare at her like she’d just admitted to something a bit worse than not eating during a game.

“I did have some things going on,” Emma argued. “We’ll be right there, Robin.”  
  
Robin nodded, finally lifting his eyes and he muttered _ok_ as the door slammed shut behind him.

“God, the Staples Center people are going to kill us for all the damage we’ve inflicted on that poor door,” Emma laughed.

“Good. Screw the Staples Center.”  
  
“That’s not a very PR positive response, Cap.”  
  
“Good thing you’re the only one here.”  
  
Emma might have actually giggled when he moved his eyebrows, doing something ridiculous with the side of his mouth and Killian groaned when he moved the wrong way, hand flying up to the stitches he probably wasn’t supposed to touch.

“You’re going to get yelled at by Victor again if you do that,” Emma said. Killian rolled his eyes.

“I’m more worried about Red.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.”  
  
“You want to go get something to eat with them or you want to just go back to the hotel?”

Emma tilted her head and, well, she hadn’t really expected the question. She was an idiot. And Neal was an ass. Who might be an anonymous source, but didn’t know a single thing about finding a home.

And she had an answer to Killian’s question – and maybe a few other ones as well.

“Let’s go get some food. You can lord your side-bet win over Scarlet. And I am kind of starving.”  
  
Killian looked at her and his answering smile was as ridiculous as trying to kiss her with several stitches in his lower lip. “We can do that, Swan.”  
  
“And I love you too. For the record, or whatever.”  
  
He kissed her again – quick and light and so goddamn meaningful it almost counteracted gossip site stories on its own. His arm slung over her shoulders might have done the rest. And they went out with the team and Killian bragged about his win and Ruby made sure Emma ate and they fell asleep together in a hotel room they weren’t supposed to be sharing in downtown Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma is not taking anything from any one at this point and Will Scarlet is my not-so-secret fave. Neal is the absolute worst though. Like, for real the worst. As always I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It means the absolute world. 
> 
> @laurenorder made this better and if you celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving!!! Also come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	41. Chapter 41

“It looks good on you.”  
  
Will glared at him, clenching his fist and Killian got the distinct impression he was trying to make sure he didn’t actually flip him off in the middle of a fan event in front of Madison Square Garden.

Although maybe then _The Post_ would write about something other than Killian and Milah and Emma and, _fuck_ , there was some kind of multi-page spread about it in the paper that morning. Regina had tried to talk to him about it as soon as Killian got out of the car, brandishing the backpage in his face like he wanted to see it.

Will grumbled again and Robin was going to hurt himself if he kept trying not to laugh too loudly. Roland and Henry looked thrilled – each of them sporting their own Stanley Cup Finals jerseys still and maybe they should get them multiples so they’d at least switch into different clothes every couple of days.

“It’s a good jersey, Uncle Will,” Roland added and Henry hummed in agreement, shrugging his shoulders in his own Jones jersey.

Killian twisted his lips – like that somehow proved _that_ – and he heard a shutter click a few feet away, flinching almost out of instinct at this point.

“It’s just Mulan, Cap,” Robin muttered knowingly, hand falling on Roland’s shoulders as he tugged him away from the growing crowd outside of the Garden.

“Jeez,” Will sighed. “Maybe it’s good I lost the bet, huh? Serve as some kind of distraction to your distraction.”  
  
“I’m not distracted,” Killian argued and both of them scoffed. “I’m not! I scored on Friday night!”  
  
Will made a face, twisting his shoulders again as if the jersey was actually making it difficult to stand still. “Yeah, yeah, and then the rest of this shit happened. Agh, shit, again. Sorry, Rol. Sorry, Henry.”  
  
“A picture of adult responsibility.”  
  
“Hey,” Will snapped and Mulan hadn’t stopped taking pictures. There’d probably be an entire pre-game gallery of the both of them, each sporting Jones jerseys. Emma would probably send it out to season-tickets. “I am a fantastic adult,” he continued. “I lived up to my end of the bet and, look, you’re not even worried about that story in _The Post_.”  
  
“Multiple stories,” Regina said, appearing, seemingly out of nowhere with her arms crossed over her chest and her phone pressed up against her ear.

“Jeez, Gina,” Killian sighed and he wished Robin would stop holding on to his own kid so he had some kind of emotional buffer for whatever conversation they were about to have on 33rd Street.

Regina rolled her eyes, unclenching her arms just long enough to pull her phone away from her ear and thrust it towards Killian. He blinked once, glancing towards Robin and Will who looked just as confused as he was.

Mulan was still taking pictures.

“Take the goddamn phone, Jones,” Regina muttered. “And Mulan if you don’t stop taking pictures, I’m going to make sure all of your equipment disappears in some sort of mysterious, if not slightly plausible way.”  
  
Will barked out a laugh, not quite able to turn it into a convincing cough quickly enough and Regina turned her glare on him, eyes narrowed and fingers flexing around the phone Killian still hadn’t actually taken.

“You’re terrifying, you know that,” Killian said, finally grabbing the phone. Regina shrugged. “What am I supposed to be looking at here?”  
  
“You don’t know how to read?”  
  
“Rude.”  
  
It sounded like everyone’s phone went off at once and it was some kind of _sign_ about how connected they all were or some rule that they had to get team updates sent to their phones and Arthur was adamant that this was something important – the notification seemed to echo down the block.

“How’d you get it first?” Killian asked and he still hadn’t actually read anything. He heard Will shuffle next to him and Robbin made a noise that sounded a bit like a gasp, Roland bouncing on his toes and muttering _what is it_ under his breath several times.

“Please,” Regina scoffed. “I get everything first.”  
  
“It’s because front office is scared of you. Because you’re scary.”

“See, you think that’s an insult and I’m going to go ahead and take it as a compliment.”  
  
“However you want to agent-it-up, I guess.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
Killian opened his mouth to respond, but Robin cut him off, hand falling on his shoulder in some sort of overwhelming _dad_ movement. “Shut up for two seconds,” he said and Killian blinked once. “Read the thing, Cap.”  
  
He glanced down and he should have realized from the team-wide notification sound – it was a press release.

About him.

Killian’s eyes widened and he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it all seemed to rush out of him and his gaze darted back up, trying to find a flash of blonde hair or the leather jacket he’d seen Emma put on that morning.

“God, Killian,” Regina shouted. “Read the goddamn press release! Sorry, Rol.”

Roland mumbled again, both hands pressed against the front of Killian’s jersey. “If we do this, mate, you can’t tell, Red.”  
  
“Ok,” Roland agreed automatically and Regina groaned loudly, head thrown back towards the sky as Killian hauled her kid over his shoulder. Mulan started taking pictures again.

“Look who’s a horrible adult influence now,” Will mumbled, but he didn’t actually look at Killian, eyes scanning his phone and his mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’ when he hit a particularly interesting line. “You’re going to want to read this, Cap.”  
  
“So I’ve heard,” Killian said and he couldn’t quite ignore the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, anxiety and nerves and something that might have just been pre-game frustration rolled into one improbable ball of feeling.

Oh.

He should have read the whole thing as soon as Regina walked over to them. She knew that. Of course. She’d be insufferable for the rest of the day.

**The New York Rangers Statement on Killian Jones**

**New York, NY (June 3, 2017)** \- The following is the New York Rangers statement on the current situation regarding Captain Killian Jones:

“We would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that the New York Rangers do not comment on its players’ personal lives and that Killian Jones, who was named captain in the 2014 season, is a key member of the Blueshirts family. Jones, 28, has skated in every Rangers game this season and is currently fifth all-time in franchise point total. The Rangers look forward to seeing Jones back on the ice. The Stanley Cup Finals return to Madison Square Garden on Saturday night. Puck drop is scheduled for 7 p.m. and can be viewed on NBC.”

“Cap,” Robin muttered cautiously and Roland kicked impatiently at his chest.

Killian groaned slightly when one of Roland’s sneakers made contact with his jersey and he shook his head once, trying to clear the rush of thoughts and possibilities and _hope_ that seemed to flood every corner of his mind.

“Gina,” he said sharply and she just pressed her lips together in response, lifting one eyebrow. “This is good, right? From an agent standpoint?”

“I think so.”  
  
“You don’t know?”  
  
Regina sighed and the eyebrow moved back to its designated spot on her forehead – only so she could roll her eyes at him. “I’m not a mindreader, Killian. And I didn’t actually talk to anyone from PR before I got this.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Right,” she said and her voice was decidedly un-Regina, surprise coloring the few letters of the one word she’d said. Robin moved again, tugging Roland’s jersey back down after it had started to ride up while using Killian as some kind of New York Rangers jungle gym.

“Did this not come from PR?”  
  
“It’s a press release, Cap,” Will reasoned. “Of course it came from PR.”  
  
“Scarlet’s got a point,” Regina admitted and Killian made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Get Mulan back here to start taking pictures again. This is the first and only time Gina’s ever going to admit that Scarlet’s right about anything.”  
  
Regina didn’t even bother acknowledging him – and that was probably for the best – Killian was somewhere in between completely distracted and slightly overwhelmed and it was probably good they had a game in a few hours because he needed to hit something.

Maybe they could side-bet something else.

“It came from PR,” Regina said. “But I don’t think it started there.”  
  
“What? That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“Think about it for a second.”  
  
He couldn’t actually hold his hands out – certain Roland would crash onto the sidewalk if he did – but Killian shook his head slowly as Regina grabbed her phone out of his grip.

“Did you guys see this?” Ariel shouted, jogging through the crowd and Killian was positive they were shirking some kind of fan-event duties.

There’d been a to-do-list on the counter that morning, Emma’s handwriting scrawled across a sheet of looseleaf and they’d taken a cab downtown together, but he hadn’t actually seen her since she had to go find Merida and he had to take pictures.

“Everybody saw it, Red,” Killian muttered, tugging his own phone out of his back pocket. “Arthur’s made sure of that.”  
  
“Whatever,” she grumbled. “This is big though. It’s big, right, Regina?”

“Maybe,” Regina replied evasively and the hope that had taken up residence in the back corner of Killian’s head flickered just a bit.

Ariel wasn’t deterred, waving her hand dismissively through the air and Mulan _really_ was missing everything because that was the first time that had ever happened. “Did you read the end of it, Cap?”  
  
Killian nodded. “I know what time puck drop is, Red.”  
  
“No, no, no, there was punctuation! Ok, so maybe not the absolute end. And if you screw up your shoulder, I’m going to throw you in front of a zamboni.”  
  
“Are we counting screw as a swear word?” Will asked, earning four disgruntled glares for the question. “What? That’s an honest concern.”  
  
“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian muttered. “Are we analyzing punctuation, Red? Because I’m not sure that I have time for that.”

“Yeah you look super busy,” she argued, slinging an arm over Henry’s shoulder out of habit.

“Is there a point to this?”  
  
“No, but there was a period!”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
Ariel grinned at him and Henry laughed under his breath, smile tugging on the corners of his lips as Killian muttered something that might have been _traitor_ at him. Roland kicked him again.

“There was a period,” Ariel repeated. “Before they said all that stuff about the Finals and what time puck drop was. It was two different sentences.”

They all froze and Killian might have stopped breathing, eyebrows pulled low as he tried to hitch Roland farther back up his shoulder.

“Wait, what?” he sputtered and he needed to come up with a better response. He needed it to be 7 p.m. eastern standard time and he needed to be out on the ice and take a two-one lead in this series.

Will let out a low whistle, phone still in his palm. “She’s right, Cap. Look, it says the team looks forward to you returning to the ice.”  
  
“Tonight,” Killian said, not entirely certain why he was arguing.

That bit of hope in the back corner of his mind flared to life again and Roland was trying to climb back down to the sidewalk, half a dozen questions falling out of his mouth as he went. “Are they going to sign you, Hook?”  
  
The small group balked at him and even Henry looked surprised. They probably shouldn’t have been. No one in the entire city was more in tune with the inner workings of the New York Rangers than Roland Locksley.

“I don’t know mate,” Killian answered honestly.

“This is good though, right?” Ariel pressed, head snapping back and forth as she waited for someone to confirm her theory. “This seems good.”  
  
"I don’t know,” Regina said again softly. Ariel’s shoulders sagged. “I mean, it could be, but it could just be punctuation. And this came from PR and they sent it to me first, but I still don’t think it originated in PR.”  
  
“Well, false hope is just an oxymoron,” Ariel muttered.

“Hope springs eternal,” Robin said solemnly and it was a good thing Roland was back on the ground because Killian would have absolutely dropped him. And then he’d never figure out the great punctuation debate because Regina would have killed him.  

“That was good,” Killian laughed. “Tell Mrs. V that one when you see her tonight.”  
  
“They coming to the restaurant?”  
  
“Swan got ‘em tickets to the game. They’ll be up with you guys,” he said, nodding towards Roland and Henry. “And fair warning, Gina, they’re going to buy them both an obscene amount of sugary nonsense. So don’t even try to fight it.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” she mumbled, seemingly taking it as a personal challenge.

Killians phone rang and Robin mumbled _speak of the Devil_ under his breath. “A second straight cliché,” Killian chuckled.

“A streak.”  
  
“Ah, would be, but you’re wrong. It’s El.”

“You have to be back here in ten minutes for photos,” Regina shouted as Killian waved a hand over his shoulder, working towards the far end of the block and, maybe, a bit of silence.

And he barely had time to move or sink onto the edge of the sidewalk or even actually say the word _hey_ before Elsa was asking questions and screaming about punctuation and grammar.

“That was efficient, El,” he mumbled and he heard the bed creak in Colorado.

“I don’t have time for jokes, KJ. You’ve got five minutes before Lizzie wakes up and I am giving up my chance at some kind of power nap to talk to you right now.”

“Could you actually fall asleep in five minutes?”  
  
“Do not test me, KJ. I am running on, like, two hours of sleep and I’m not even sure I read the release right.”  
  
“How’d you get the release?”  
  
“Liam got it.”  
  
“Where is Liam?” Killian asked, a bit stunned that he hadn’t been inundated with text messages as soon as the release hit his inbox.

“He took the twins out so I could get some sleep.”  
  
“Oh, top-notch mom guilt, El.”  
  
“Shut up. Answer my question.”  
  
“You really could have gone to sleep. You still can.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re avoiding my question.”  
  
“I’m not,” Killian promised. “Honestly. I just don’t have an answer.”  
  
“What did Regina say?”  
  
“That she has no idea where the release came from, just that it got sent to her and then to everybody else and, apparently, across the entire league.”  
  
“It does seem kind of weird, right?” Elsa asked. “A little out of left field.”  
  
“You’re mixing up your clichés.”  
  
“Don’t tell mom when you see her later.”  
  
“I’ll be kind of busy.”  
  
Elsa sighed and there was a noise that sounded distinctly like a several-week baby waking up. “Damn,” she muttered as the bed creaked again and she started mumbling under her breath, quiet words of encouragement that sounded a bit like _please go back to sleep_.

Lizzie quieted slightly and Elsa was swaying back and forth – Killian was certain of it, the picture almost making him smile despite that weird, large ball of _whatever_ that was somehow sitting in the pit of his stomach.

“I think it could be good,” Killian admitted suddenly, pressing his lips together tightly as soon as the words were out of his mouth and he tugged on the back of his hair until it nearly hurt.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

False hope, or whatever.

“Me too,” Elsa whispered. “Really good, actually.”  
  
“I want to come back, El.”

And he wasn’t sure when he’d just started admitting to _everything_ , but there was a gurgling baby on the other end of the line and Elsa was probably smiling and swaying back and forth and for the first time in his entire goddamn life Killian Jones knew exactly what he wanted.

“I know you do, KJ,” she said. “And so do the New York Rangers. Are you and Scarlet going to bet again while you’re home?”  
  
“How’d you know about that?”  
  
“Please, I know everything,” Elsa scoffed and he was going to do damage to his already damaged mouth if he kept smiling like that.

“Yeah, that’s probably true.”  
  
“And it’s all over the internet. Tell Ruby and Emma they’re ridiculously good at their jobs because they’re totally riding this story to distract from the….”  
  
“Everything else?” Killian finished.

“Exactly that.”  
  
“There was a spread in _The Post_ this morning,” he muttered and Elsa sighed loudly enough to spark a brand-new round of infant crying. “Shit, sorry, El.”  
  
“No, no, it’s almost ok. What was the spread about?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Everything and then some things that didn’t actually happen, but mostly just a disturbing amount of things that did. They’re trying to say I was _distracted_ during the season. That she….”  
  
He cut himself off and breathing was suddenly the most difficult thing he’d ever tried to do. An anonymous source told _The New York Post_ that Milah had been there before Liam got hurt and maybe the relationship was the _reason_ he got hurt and Killian must have been far too focused on stealing someone’s wife to be looking where he was shooting the puck.

“Shit,” Elsa mumbled and Killian let out a shaky laugh. “What did Emma say?”  
  
He pushed the heel of his sneaker into the sidewalk, dragging a bit of gravel with him and Elsa sighed again. “Oh, KJ, did you go looking for stories on your own?”  
  
“Maybe,” he said.

“That’s stupid, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I do. I think she’s stopped getting newspapers sent to her apartment. There haven’t been any since the Boston series.”  
  
“Just how often are you staying at Emma’s apartment?”

Killian blinked once and he needed to get off this phone – he was talking too much. Elsa laughed, sounding far more awake than anyone, reportedly, running on two hours of sleep should be.

“KJ,” she said slowly and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Are you living with Emma?”  
  
“No,” he argued immediately. “I have my own apartment, El.”  
  
“Yeah, when’s the last time you were at that apartment?”  
  
He couldn’t remember. Before the playoffs? After the Montreal series? They just kept going back to Emma’s. He was building some kind of clothing collection in the corner of her closet.

“Your silence is deafening,” Elsa laughed.

“It’s a superstition thing,” Killian mumbled. “We started winning and it had to be the same thing or we’d stop winning.”  
  
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“You’re married to a hockey player, El. You know how this works.”  
  
“Whatever. So you going to sell your apartment then? You’d probably get a ton of money for it. Hey! That could help if you don’t sign.”  
  
“Jeez,” he sighed, threatening to pull out a chunk of hair with the vice-like grip he had on it.

“That was kind of low, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Below sea level.”  
  
Elsa laughed again, but it was different than it had been – a bit softer and far too understanding and _of course_ it was. “Your apartment’s too big anyway,” Elsa said matter-of-factly.

“Just chock-full of opinions today aren’t we, Mom?”

“Haven’t you thought about it?”  
  
His silence was as much of an answer as it had been a few minutes before and Killian’s mind was firing eighteen steps ahead of where it should be – moving into her apartment and staying there indefinitely and they’d have to buy a new mattress, or maybe just bring his.

Of course he hadn’t thought about it.

Of course _that_ was the biggest lie in the history of the world.

“Good,” Elsa said simply and it felt like she’d passed some sort of emotional law. “You should ask her on the ice.”  
  
“What?”

“To marry you. Or whatever. After you guys win. Like you get the Cup and you lift it and skate around and it’s all cliché whatever and then you ask her to marry you and the two of you ride off into some kind of hockey-based sunset.”  
  
Killian’s eyes were watering, they were so wide, his grip on his phone going slack as the words settled into him. “Who are you what have you done with Elsa?”  
  
She groaned. “I've had a lot of time on my hands.”  
  
“And too much time talking to Banana.”  
  
“I’m totally going to tell her you said that.”

“Evil.”  
  
“So maybe we strike the post-Cup proposal. The rest of it seems fairly legit though.”  
  
“We have to win a Cup still, El,” Killian reasoned, waging some kind of mental battle against false-hope and how much that was absolutely an oxymoron. “And I still have to sign.”  
  
“They were two separate sentences, KJ.”

“Did you talk to Red?”  
  
“She’s been texting me the entire time I’ve been talking to you.”  
  
Killian groaned, but he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, lifting his head to find Ariel staring at him a few feet away with a smile on her face and her fingers flying across her phone screen. She waved.

“I’m surprised you haven’t somehow gotten Banana on too,” Killian muttered. “Bring it all the way back to middle school.”  
  
“Oof, you better get on ice soon. You’ll get a five-minute with all that pent up aggression.”  
  
“You’re not the only one who’s had a lot of time to think, El.”  
  
She made a noise in the back of her throat, something that was in between an agreement and sympathy and Killian didn’t know which one he’d rather have.

“Emma doesn’t care,” Elsa said and there was little room for argument in her voice. “About the story. Or stories. Plural, I guess.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that?”  
  
Elsa didn’t say anything for what was, at least, an eternity and Killian tried not to groan too loudly when realization hit him. “Did you talk to her?”

“No,” Elsa corrected. “She called me. Yesterday.”

“What?” She hummed and Regina was shouting for him, something about _the schedule_ and _photos_ and _posing with Scarlet_. He didn’t move. “About what, El?”  
  
“The story that ran about her.”  
  
“I didn’t even read that.”  
  
“I know you didn’t and so does she, but, oh, what did she tell me? If you get to talk to her friends about her then she can turn the tables? Eh, it doesn’t matter, but it was better than that. She’s worried about you. I think she wants to win more than you do, KJ.”

“That’s probably true,” Killian admitted, smiling in spite of himself and Regina was still yelling.

“She’s good at her job.”  
  
“Also true.”  
  
It wasn’t exactly a groan, but Elsa sounded frustrated and Killian was half certain he was missing something – big.  
  
“I can’t believe Gina didn’t just tell you already,” Elsa said.

“You’re talking in circles.”  
  
“And you are very dense sometimes, KJ.”  
  
“Rude.”  
  
“You going to score tonight? Dad wants to see a Stanley Cup goal.”  
  
“It’s not like we can clinch tonight.”  
  
“Yeah, but this is a huge deal for them. I don’t think mom’s talked about anything else since they got the tickets.”  
  
“They got actually tickets?”  
  
“Go ahead and be impressed with your girlfriend.”  
  
He was. And he should probably tell her that. And then maybe a million and two other things that they’d been far too busy to discuss.

Because he wasn’t really interested in every going back to his far-too-big apartment.

Killian’s phone buzzed in his hand and he wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if Regina had just started texting threats to him at this point.

“I’ve got to go, El,” he said quickly, trying to brush off pieces of sidewalk from the back of his pants when he stood up.

“A goal, KJ. At least.”  
  
“At least?”  
  
“Aren’t you still battling Scarlet?”  
  
“We haven’t decided yet.”  
  
“You definitely are.”  
  
“Probably,” Killian admitted. “I’ll talk to you later, El. Tell Lizzie I said _bye_.”

“She can’t speak.”  
  
“She doesn’t need to in this situation. Bye, Lizzie!”  
  
Elsa laughed softly, mumbling under her breath and she might have been making her baby wave at the phone. “Bye, KJ.”  
  
He pushed back through the crowd, swiping his finger across his phone screen and the, two, text messages he had weren’t from Regina.

Elsa must have been very busy while she was on the phone with him.  
**_  
KJ, I swear, if you don’t call me before puck drop, I’m going to tell mom and dad to yell at you in front of your entire team like you’re ten years old again. You have to call me! Are you really selling your apartment? And I think you should get a sapphire when you propose to Emma because it’s unexpected and she’d like that and it matches your jersey._ **

Killian’s mouth dropped open, oblivious to the fans that were shouting his name while he walked by them and he blinked twice like that would make Anna’s message disappear.

It did not.

Jeez.

Emma’s text wasn’t quite as long.

**Did you know your locker room is round for a reason? True fact. It’s supposed to kind of be like the Round Table or something, so everyone is even. I guess this makes you a knight of the New York Rangers.**

_Are knights better than Kings?_

**In this instance, yes.**

_More gallant, at least._

**Gentleman. Or so I’ve been reliably informed.**

_Always._

**You guys are totally going to wreck tonight.**

_Is that your professional opinion?_  
**  
Quote me.**

**Although Henry said it first.**

**But you’re definitely going to win. Quote that too.**

He was smiling when he finally made it back to Regina, pressed into a line in between Scarlet and Locksley and made to pose for even more photos and probably several SnapChats and it was somewhere in between directions that he realized.

Emma had sent the press release. Or, at least, made someone send the press release.

She was very good at her job.

It took all of five seconds to persuade Scarlet to go another round on the side-bet and it didn’t really matter that they didn’t really set any terms, a much-needed distraction without actually using that word.

Killian should probably stop telling Scarlet to shut up all the time.

The game itself was a pretty good distraction as well. And he didn’t really have any problems with anyone on the actual ice, but the entire Kings roster seemed to have a problem with Killian – someone hitting him seemingly every time he touched the puck.

It was loud, the noise of a jam-packed Garden crowd echoing in his ears late in the third period and it wasn’t the _offensive explosion_ the last game had been, but they were still winning and he was, maybe, holding onto some slim side-bet advantage.

If his math was right.

Somebody hit him again and he could feel the stick hit up horizontal against his back, skates moving underneath him as he crash crashed into the boards – painfully.

“Fuck,” Killian grumbled, pain settling at the base of his neck and in between his shoulder blades. He pushed back up, glancing over his shoulder to find some Kings third-liner shrug at him.

He should have paid better attention.

He didn’t see the streak of blue and anger – and weeks worth of waiting on the bench – streaking past him.

“Enthusiastic isn’t he,” Robin muttered, grabbing another Kings player by the back of his jersey as Philip started throwing actual punches. “Hey,” he added, arm wrapped around the forward in front of him, who had at least thirty pounds on him. “None of that. Stay still.”  
  
The guy didn’t say anything and Killian laughed, shrugging as his gaze darted back to Philip. He winced when the rookie landed an impressive punch and the crowd got louder, the sound of sticks tapping on the ice barely audible over the dull roar.

“He’s had some time to consider his approach,” Killian mused. The Kings player was barely upright at this point, skates moving quickly as he tried to keep his balance and they’d still probably be on the power player – Killian had absolutely gotten boarded.

“True,” Robin agreed. “And so have you if the rumors are true.”  
  
“What? Seriously? Right now, Locksley?”  
  
Robin shrugged and the Kings player he was still holding onto looked vaguely upset that he was an unwitting audience to this conversation. “What else are you doing?”  
  
“Trying to stay focused on the Stanley Cup Finals game we’re in the middle of.”  
  
“We’re two goals up.”  
  
“Don’t let Arthur hear you saying that.”  
  
“Good thing we’re on the other side of the ice then, huh?”  
  
Killian groaned and he kind of wished he had a Kings player to punch if only to work out some of his frustration – he had a lot of it.

And Robin wasn’t done talking.

“Gina thinks Emma set up the release,” he said conversationally as if there weren’t whistles blowing a few feet away and a rookie whose finger was barely stitched back together punching somebody in Killian’s name.

“Yup,” Killian answered and he didn’t even have to turn around to know that Robin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“Anna texted Scarlet.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
His back was still killing him, there would probably be a bruise there and, _shit_ , Mr. and Mrs. Vankald were in the team suite. Mrs. V was probably crying.

Killian rolled his shoulders and it didn’t really work. It still hurt like hell.

“You really going to do that?” Robin asked, finally letting go of the opposing player he’d been holding onto and Philip had gotten four minutes for fighting and they didn’t actually get a power play out of the enormous bruise Killian was certain had formed across three quarters of his back.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Arthur shouted for them and they had to get off the ice, turning in tandem back towards the bench and doing their best to ignore the status of the whiteboard behind the bench.

“You ask him?” Will mumbled as soon as the penalty kill started, far too aware of Arthur just a few feet away from them.

“There is a game going on here,” Killian sighed.

“Yeah, why do you think they’re trying to kill you?”  
  
“Probably all threatened by my undeniable talent and good-looking face and, oh, how much I am absolutely beating the shit out of you in this bet.”  
  
“If I hear one more thing about this goddamn bet,” Arthur shouted, not taking his eyes away from the ice when they cleared the puck out of the zone. “I’m putting both Locksley and Jones on fourth line and Scarlet’ll get ten minutes on ice, tops.”  
  
“You don’t have enough defenders, Arthur,” Will argued, swinging his legs over the boards and Arthur looked like he wanted to break another whiteboard.

“Don’t taunt him like that,” Killian muttered. “He really will knock me down two lines.”  
  
“Nah, you keep scoring, Cap.”  
  
He did. He’d scored again – a second period shot that he hoped Mrs. V remembered whenever she felt particularly inclined to start crying over the state of his back and how many times he’d been hit into the boards that night.

“Plus,” Robin added, knees bent and stick moving quickly in front of him as LA pushed back into the zone. “The fans’ll riot or something if he takes you off first.”

“Exactly,” Will huffed as he lunged towards the puck to knock it back out of the zone. “See, the fans totally care about you. Not us.”  
  
Robin laughed. The Kings player next to him kept staring at him like he was an alien or possibly a professional NHL player trying to discuss Killian’s entire life in the middle of a Stanley Cup penalty kill.

“Definitely not you guys,” Killian said and he couldn’t mask his groan when _another_ body collided with his back. God, he’d have to go to PT for hours the next day.

“So, c’mon, Cap,” Will continued. “You ask her or no?”  
  
“You guys are going to have to be more specific.”  
  
Will grumbled, bumping against the Kings guy trying to get position in front of the net and Jefferson was completely screened. They needed to get the puck out – twenty-four seconds left on the PK and only a few minutes until the final whistle and a two-one series lead.

That might get the stories to stop.

And, at least, a few hours of sleep and Emma.

Mostly Emma.

“Anna texted me,” Will explained, shouting over his shoulder and this was _absurd_. “Said you were thinking about selling your apartment and maybe buying a ring or something.”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
“Yeah, so when you going to get married, Cap?”  
  
“Oh my God.” He lowered his shoulder when he saw another Kings jersey moving towards him, players rushing out of the penalty box and it almost didn’t hurt.

There wasn’t enough time for an LA rally, even after they pulled their goalie again and they’d _won_ – a victory on Garden ice in the Finals and the whole goddamn building sounded like it was going to fall down around them when the game ended.

He star’ed.

And his phone was shaking violently on the shelf by the time he got back to his locker, a string of messages from everyone – Liam, El, Anna, Henry, even David, complete with several exclamation points.

He clicked on Emma’s first.

**Were you talking during the PK? Also is your back ok? You should get A to look at your back. I can’t believe that guy didn’t get a major.**

_Worried about me, Swan?_  
**  
Obviously.**

_I’m fine’ish. And Red found me before I even went back out for star._

**You star’ed?**  
_  
You didn’t see?_

 **We had a thing. It was on the list on the fridge this morning. Raffle to come into the TV box and meet Sam and John. I only saw bits and pieces of the PK and I didn’t see the end of the game.**  
_  
The list was on the counter this morning. First star._

**Oh shit, that’s why I couldn’t find it. I had to make a new one when I got to work. And that’s impressive, Cap. The season-ticket wrap led with your goal.**

_As long as you think so, love._

He typed the words before he really thought about it, the small change in nickname obvious as soon as his thumb hit _send_ and he was certain Emma noticed immediately. He hoped Mr. and Mrs. Vankald weren’t nearby.

 **Always**.

He split a cab with Robin and Will uptown, not even bothering to argue their comments about the _smile on his face_ and Scarlet might have started humming some kind of wedding march when he slid into the backseat of the car.

“If you say anything to Mrs. V about any of this ridiculous nonsense, I will actually kill you in the restaurant,” Killian promised, twisting around the front seat to glare at his linemates.

“That just sounds like you’re considering it, Cap,” Will smiled.

“I’m not. No one is, except El, and that’s only because she’s got some kind of overactive imagination now. I swear, if either of you guys bring this up tonight, I’m murdering both of you.”  
  
Will blinked once and Robin looked somewhere between disappointed and impressed, but he nodded once. “Sure thing, Cap.”  
  
“Good.”

The restaurant was crowded when they walked in, not quite as loud as the Garden had been, but close. And the crowd cheered when the door opened, Killian wincing slightly when half a dozen hands clapped him on his back.

He heard Mrs. Vankald call for him and Killian moved farther into the restaurant, ducking his head at compliments and reenactments of his shot. Emma was sitting on one of the stools at the bar, one foot hooked around the other as she talked to Mary Margaret and David.

Mary Margaret had her phone out and it only took a few moments to piece together the scene – they’d been talking about the wedding to Mr. and Mrs. Vankald.

He didn’t know quite what to do with that.

Probably remember it forever or something absurd.

“Hell of a shot,” Mr. Vankald said, holding his hand out to shake Killian’s.

“Thanks,” Killian mumbled and he was suddenly thirteen years old again and leaning up against the boards at Chelsea Piers. Emma was smiling at him.

“We were just talking about Reese’s Rangers-themed wedding,” she said, chancing a glance towards a clearly stunned Mary Margaret.

“It’s not Rangers themed,” she shouted and out of all the noises and sounds and cheers he’d heard that night, Killian would probably remember Emma’s laugh clearer than any of the rest of them combined.

“Of course not.”

He moved again, hissing slightly when the pain shot down his spine and Emma’s eyes widened, straightening slightly when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m fine, Swan.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Have you seen Emma’s maid of honor dress, Killian?” Mrs. Vankald asked and it might have been the most obvious subject change in the history of the entire world.

“It’s a surprise,” Mary Margaret answered.

Mrs. Vankald nodded seriously asking more questions about the wedding and the castle and what kind of menu they were planning on serving. Ariel joined a few minutes later, Ruby a few feet behind her with her own – very loud – complaints about the _Rangers blue color scheme from wedding hell_.

“You’ve been playing really well,” Mr. Vankald said suddenly, taking Killian by surprise and his arm tightened around Emma’s shoulders instinctively. That hurt.

“Thanks,” Killian muttered.

“Skating better than I can remember seeing you.”

His throat was dry and his mouth was dry and he still felt a bit like a teenager, even with a drink he wasn’t really supposed to have clutched tightly in his hand.

“Thanks.” He needed to come up with something else to say. Emma laughed softly next to him, head falling on his shoulder and Mr. Vankald had some kind of impossible look on his face.

“It’s kind of your team now, isn’t it?” Mr. Vankald continued.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”  
  
Mr. Vankald pursed his lip, nodding slowly. “And they’re not talking to anyone, right?”  
  
Oh. They were going to do _that_ then. Emma’s head snapped back up and Killian couldn’t move that quickly – probably should have done a bit more postgame, some kind of ice bath or something, but he was hungry and tired and he wanted to go home with Emma again.

“That was my fault,” Emma said, rushing over the words and nearly falling off the stool in an effort to move towards Mr. Vankald.

“Swan,” Killian warned and she shook her head quickly.

“I told Elsa. Just before the story came out the other day. I wanted, well, I wanted her to know. All that stuff they’re writing, or at least half the stuff they’re writing, it’s because of me. The source is because of me.”  
  
“It’s not, Swan.”  
  
“Killian…”  
  
Mr. Vankald laughed. And neither Killian nor Emma was entirely prepared for that. “What is happening right now?” he asked.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emma,” Mr. Vankald said and that wasn’t really an answer to Killian’s question. “Glad Killian’s got…”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma cut in. “He does.”  
  
“You really called Elsa?”  
  
“We’re kind of maybe friends now?”  
  
“You are, Swan,” Killian said. And maybe her smile was better than her laugh. He loved her more than anything – and maybe that’s what was going on.

“That woman before,” Mr. Vankald continued, “when William was still in the hospital? That was her?”  
  
Killian tensed slightly, but Emma’s hand moved to the front of his jacket and he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said.

“You could have said.”  
  
“No I couldn’t.”  
  
“Killian Jones,” Mr. Vankald snapped, voice low and determined and Killian sat up straighter again out of instinct. “Yes, you could have. You could have told someone. Did William know?”  
  
“El and Banana too.”  
  
“But not us?”  
  
“I was...I was mad, Mr. V,” Killian sighed, words tumbling out of him like he’d been holding them in for years. He had. “About Liam and everything he lost and none of it was ever as perfect as it should have been. No one really knew. Liam just saw her at the hospital and I couldn’t...I couldn’t lie to his face, not after everything.”  
  
Mr. Vankald hummed and Killian sighed, pain lingering in his back when his shoulders sagged. “Only a couple of people knew she was in the car.”  
  
“William and Elsa and Anna?”  
  
“Locksley and Scarlet too.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, head tilting towards Emma and she smiled, the ends of her mouth tilting up as her thumb tapped out a short rhythm against his chest.

“I couldn’t disappoint you again,” he muttered. “Not after everything you and Mrs. V did. I couldn’t...I didn’t want to mess that up.”  
  
Mr. Vankald didn’t say anything immediately and his face was almost _too_ Elsa, making Killian freeze and possibly stop breathing again. He could hear Emma shift on the stool, crossing and recrossing her legs and, _shit_ , it was so much family.

He hoped Elsa hadn’t said anything else during that phone call.

“You couldn’t, Killian,” Mr. Vankald said and there was a seriousness in his voice that didn’t quite belong in an uptown restaurant celebrating a Finals game victory. “Ever.”

Killian scoffed, shaking his head and the Los Angeles media contingent would have a field day with him – captain of the New York Rangers, distinctly lacking in confidence, just wanting to be enough.

“You could have given it all up,” Mr. Vankald added. “The hockey and whatever deal they’re absolutely going to sign you to after the way you’ve been playing and it wouldn’t have mattered. You’re a good man, Killian and you’ve found something good here.”  
  
It hurt to move and Emma muttered under her breath when he pulled his arm away, pushing his hand out into the space in front of Mr. Vankald. He took it and then he did something else Killian didn’t entirely expect – he pulled him towards him and hugged him.

“Mrs. V,” Robin shouted, jogging back towards them and gaping at the sight in front of him. “Oh, sorry, sorry.”  
  
“What is it, Robin?” Mrs. Vankald asked and Killian was certain her eyes were just a bit glossy.

Robin bragged about his cliché knowledge and they toasted Killian’s goal – David coming up with a handful of his own impressive clichés on the spot – and Emma didn’t actually ask if he was coming back to her apartment, just laced her fingers through his and hailed a cab.

It was quiet in her apartment and they moved slowly, fingers trailing along arms and across the backs of hands and wrists and it sent a shiver down his spine that was decidedly better than the pain that had lingered throughout most of the night.

“I can’t believe that guy didn’t get a major,” Emma muttered later, oversized team-merch and not much else on as she flipped on her side to stare at him.

He couldn’t actually lay on his back.

“We won, Swan,” Killian said. “That’s the only thing that mattered.”  
  
She hummed thoughtfully, closing her eyes and for half a moment Killian thought she’d fallen asleep. “Does it hurt?”

“What?”  
  
“It’s got to be bruised, right?” Killian made a noise in the back of his throat and Emma pressed her teeth into her lip, a slight crease forming in between her eyebrows.

“It’s not a big deal, love.” And there was that nickname change again. He’d been right – her eyebrows moved and her eyes widened and it wasn’t exactly bright, but he could see the green in her gaze perfectly.

“You’re not answering my questions.”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said quickly. “Like hell.”  
  
“I thought you talked to A.”  
  
“She’s not a miracle worker.”

“Can I...can I see it?”

Killian made a face and Emma scrunched her nose – taking his reaction for the opposite it was. And he probably wouldn’t ever be able to come to terms with how much she _obviously_ cared. She’d called Elsa to explain the source.

“I love you,” he said before he could stop himself. Emma jerked back slightly, but she smiled and her laugh was just a bit breathless.

“Was that the answer?”  
  
Killian flopped onto his stomach, shaking the few pillows she had on her bed, and rested his chin on his hands. “Have at it, Swan.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath before she moved, swinging one leg over him until she was resting her weight on her calves and his legs and he tried not to flinch when her fingers brushed along his spine.

“Jeez,” she muttered, feather light touches on his back and he hadn’t actually seen the bruise he was certain was there.

“Bad?”  
  
“It’s green. Is it supposed to be green?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Killian admitted. “Red didn’t seem too worried. Said all my internal organs should be fine.”  
  
“Oh God, I didn’t even think about your internal organs.”  
  
“You don’t need to be thinking about that at all, Swan.”  
  
She made a contradictory noise and Killian couldn’t really laugh without _something_ hurting, smiling against the back of his hands instead. “Maybe I want to be concerned about your organs, internal or otherwise.”  
  
“That sounds decidedly like a come-on.”  
  
“Well I am on top of you.”  
  
“I’m wounded, Swan,” Killian mumbled, voice muffled by his hands and the mattress and Emma’s hands hadn’t actually stopped moving yet.

“Are you suggesting, Captain, that you’re not interested in the fact that I am on top of you?”

HIs stomach did something impossible and maybe all of his internal organs weren’t functioning as well as he’d promised – heart speeding up and lungs collapsing – and the bed shook when Emma crashed back to his side.

“I’ve never said anything like that,” Killian said. He tried to prove his point by moving, but moving was, apparently, difficult and painful and Emma made a face when he winced, palm resting flat against his chest.

“Put you on the DL,” she muttered.

“Wrong sport.”  
  
“And they’ll probably have to drag you off the ice at this point. How many minutes, tonight?”  
  
“Like twenty-five. Or something.”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
“I want to win, Swan.”  
  
Emma smiled, thumb brushing across his jaw and _screw_ the pain – he moved and he kissed her. She gasped against his mouth, his hand buried in her hair and her fingers on his neck and one of them might have groaned.

Or maybe both of them.

There weren’t that many clothes in between them.

And they’d both gotten so comfortable in this apartment with a few pillows and a not-quite-soft mattress, it only took a few moments until they were both breathless, a mess of hands and lips and kisses trailed across collarbones and shoulders.

“I thought you were injured,” Emma mumbled, fingernails tracing across the bottom of his hair.

Killian laughed softly, canting his hips and kissing her again before he answered. “And I said that I might have been interested in your come-on, even if it was a bit heavy-handed.”  
  
“Rude. See if I flirt with you again.”  
  
“As if you could stop yourself.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue and Killian grinned in response. “They were kind of gunning for you tonight, weren’t they?” she asked. “It seemed you were always getting hit.”  
  
“I’m ok.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”

Killian shrugged. “It’s better than the questions, honestly.”  
  
“Did anyone say anything during post?”  
  
“Nah, they finally cared more about the game now that we’ve won two straight.” He couldn’t quite keep the _bitter_ out of his voice and the ends of Emma’s mouth ticked down at his tone. “Did you really do it?” Killian asked.

“Do what?”  
  
“You sent the release, didn’t you? Or at least strongly suggested someone send a press release.”  
  
Emma’s mouth dropped open and she blinked quickly. “How could you know that?”

“Was that a ‘yes,’ love?”  
  
“I told Ruby to,” she said quickly. “Yesterday. And she talked to PR and they agreed and we wrote it and they put it out. I didn’t think you’d figure it out that easily. And don’t say _open book_ , that’s just cheating.”  
  
“And true.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Killian moved his hand, resting on the curve of her waist and Emma bit her lip again, eyes ducked down to the small space in between them. “Why?” he asked.

“I talked to El. And she’s been worried and I’ve been worried and, well, I wasn’t lying before. This is...this whole thing is so fucked up. And none of it makes sense and it might not be totally my fault, but at least some of it is because of me, so, I figured, I could fix it. Anyway, whatever, now we’re even.”  
  
“Even?”

Emma wavered for a moment, head tilting back and forth and she’d twisted her whole mouth trying to come up with the right words. Killian waited – and maybe started moving his hand until her shirt was bunched up underneath her palm.

“Well, after everything you’ve done this season. Saving events and coming to fan things I know you secretly hate and, God, Killian you _saved_ Henry’s entire house and he’s going to have a family because of you.”  
  
“And you, Swan,” he argued quickly. “That’s half your victory too. Maybe three-quarters since you got him to the Garden in the first place.”  
  
“Oh, God, does that mean we have to thank Aurora too?”  
  
“Nah, just us.”  
  
Emma laughed, head pressed into the pillow and maybe he _should_ sell his apartment. Maybe they should win another game first.

“Good to know,” Emma mumbled. “Seriously though. You’ve done...everything this season and, well, if there’s one thing I can do, it’s write good press releases. So, I figured...”  
  
He kissed her again.

Of course.

“Thank you,” he said, not entirely certain it was enough. Emma smiled – maybe it was.

“Even footing.”  
  
“And here I thought that was just for our clothing.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t waver, fingers working against the edge of the Rangers-provided, Stanley Cup Finals shorts he was wearing.

He never said anything about the apartment or how he’d known exactly where her to-do-list had been that morning, just fell asleep with his arm flung across Emma’s side.

They’d get there.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, Mr. Vankald welcome to the world of overly emotional Stanley Cup Finals. Elsa continues to know everything and Emma is absolutely done not being in control. 
> 
> @laurenorder makes this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	42. Chapter 42

Emma’s alarm went off and she groaned, turning on her side and nearly falling off the couch she was laying on.

She was back on Mary Margaret’s couch.

“Emma, if you don’t turn that off, I’m going to throw your phone out the window,” David threatened from the kitchen, the sound of the coffee maker and what sounded like every pan they owned, almost drowning out his words.

Emma stifled her laugh and grabbed her phone, swiping across the screen to silence the alarm. “Are you making pancakes?” she asked, pushing back up to hang over the side of the couch.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”  
  
“I’ve already completely screwed up my neck. I might as well do some damage to my kidneys or whatever too.”   
  
“Your kidneys are in your back. Learn basic anatomy.”   
  
“Are you grumpy because you’re up at a ridiculously early hour or because you won’t be able to watch tonight’s game?”   
  
“Don’t talk about that.”   
  
“So definitely the second one then?”   
  
David pressed his lips together tightly, huffing out air through his nose and Emma laughed loudly, ignoring the buzzing phone she still had in her hands.

“Oh why are you doing that, Emma?” Mary Margaret asked, walking out of the bedroom with a team-branded t-shirt on and something that looked like blue ribbon in her hair.

“I’m not doing anything at all,” Emma promise and David made a noise in the back of his throat, kicking at one of the cabinets.

“I’m making you pancakes, Emma,” David grumbled. “And went out early and bought cinnamon for good luck.”  
She was an idiot. And kind of a jerk. And Merida would not stop texting her about Rangerstown or the game that night and they could _win_ tonight.

They’d swept the New York games, gave up just two goals in two games and, now, they could win a Stanley Cup tonight. In Los Angeles. Where Emma wasn’t. She was in New York, running a Rangerstown event and David couldn’t go because he needed to save the city or something ridiculously adult and demonstratively _good_ and he’d still gone and gotten her cinnamon for the hot chocolate he probably bought that morning as well.

And he’d let her sleep on his couch. Again.

Emma jumped up, swinging over the arm of the couch and David groaned when she collided with his back, arms wrapped tightly around him with as much emotion as she could muster in the morning.

“Thanks, Dad,” she muttered into his shoulder and Mary Margaret made some kind of impossible noise a few feet away.

David sighed, twisting around, slinging his arm around Emma’s shoulders and he kissed the top of her head with a familiarity that nearly made her start to cry.

It was too early for that.

And she hadn’t really slept on the couch – a mix of nervous excitement and the lingering silence that had been in her apartment and, well, her bed wasn’t exactly enormous, but it felt that way when she went back to it by herself.

David probably knew all of that, hadn’t even questioned the knock on the door when Emma had shown up just before midnight, hair a tousled mess with one bag in her hand and a hopeful smile on her face.

He’d just wrapped his arms around her and his hand found the back of her head and muttered _come on_ , like he’d been waiting for her or something.

He brought her blankets.

“What time did they leave yesterday?” Mary Margaret asked, blinking quickly at the scene in her kitchen and David still hadn’t let go of Emma.

“You’re going to burn your pancakes,” she mumbled.

“Please,” David muttered and _god_ he was making bacon too. Emma was half certain she saw a small pile of potatoes as well. “I would never burn my pancakes.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face and they could _win_ tonight. She took the cup Mary Margaret offered her, pressing it against her cheek and jumping onto the edge of the counter.

“Early,” Emma answered. “They had skate yesterday afternoon and more media.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes widened slightly at _media_ and Emma took a sip of her coffee – it was too hot. There was a deeper meaning there and it had been fine, she _knew_ it had been fine, had been promised by Ruby with near-constant updates of media and no one actually asked about her or them or anything that wasn’t the Rangers’ chances of clinching on Staples Center ice later that night.

It was fine.

Totally fine.

It had just been quiet in her apartment and she wasn’t quite used to the quiet anymore, wasn’t quite used to coming home in the dark and by herself and at some point in the last few weeks Emma realized she’d lost a good chunk of her closet space.

David and Mary Margaret probably realized that too.

“They asked about the game,” Emma said, answering a question Mary Margaret hadn’t really asked.

“Of course they did,” she said quickly, but there was an edge to her voice that nearly explained whatever breakfast feast David was in the middle of cooking. “Why wouldn’t they? He’s on that ridiculous point streak and the team is playing well and we can win tonight.”  
  
“We?”   
  
“Oh, well, yeah,” Mary Margaret sputtered. “I mean, well, you’re kind of…”   
  
She trailed off and David shot Emma a meaningful look over his shoulder, flipping the pancakes so they didn’t actually burn.

“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “I am and if it’s my team, then it’s certainly your team too. After all, you guys are the ones having a Rangers themed wedding.”  
  
David groaned and Emma smiled even wider. “Now you’ve done it,” he sighed. “God, you’re a terror in the morning aren’t you?”   
  
“Haven’t had enough coffee yet.”   
  
“Well, drink the coffee and then get off my counter.”   
  
“Sure thing Dad. And then I’ll make sure to carb-load since, apparently, you think I’m the one going out on the ice to skate for a Stanley Cup later tonight.”   
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret chided softly and for as many mornings as she’d spent in that loft and with both of them, this was, somehow, different.

Everything was different.

And it was still far too early for that kind of conversation.

“Plus,” Mary Margaret continued pointedly, ignoring the sound of sizzling bacon a few inches behind her. “We’re not having a Rangers themed wedding. We’ve been over this.”

Emma lifted her eyebrows, glancing around the apartment and the signs of an impending wedding that seemed to sit on every inch of available space. There were menus stacked in the corner and centerpieces piled behind the couch and Emma’s maid of honor dress – finally fitted and tailored, with matching shoes – was hanging on the front of the closet door.

“I know, Reese’s,” Emma said, sliding off the counter and grabbing a piece of bacon from the plate near David. He glared at her. “I’m just fulfilling my teenage duties here.”

Mary Margaret shook her head, but she was trying not to smile and Emma could still hear her phone buzzing – Merida half a moment from _meltdown_ status the day before when one of the vendors didn’t send the rally towels on time.

They were supposed to get there that afternoon. And Emma wouldn’t have been totally surprised if Merida had just slept in her office the night before, determined to make sure she didn’t miss the towels.

“If you were actually a teenager, you’d be the worst one in the whole world,” David said, holding a plate out in front of Emma as she moved back towards her phone and her assistant and, maybe, another hockey-related disaster.

If it wasn’t towels, she didn’t want to know. Ruby promised it’d be fine.

“Am I not hitting the high points? Teasing the parents, not actually getting enough sleep, breaking the rules of sitting on the counter?”  
  
“If you were a good teenager you wouldn’t be seen dead with your mom at a fan event later tonight.”   
  
Ah, well, that was true.

It was bigger than Bryant Park. And maybe even the season opener. And just about anything she’d done all season except the charity game, but, hopefully, without the disasters of the charity game or the obnoxious media at the charity game and, well, Emma wanted Mary Margaret at her fan event.

If only for moral support.

And she couldn’t remember the last time that happened – the last time Emma wanted support from _anyone_ , but she’d asked and, of course, Mary Margaret had said yes, promising to help get things set up and control crowds and she had blue ribbon in her hair already.

“It’s going to be fun, right, Reese’s?” Emma asked, sinking onto the corner of the couch with her plate balanced precariously on her knee.

“Of course it is,” Mary Margaret promised as she dropped down next to Emma. “Did the towels come yet?”  
  
“There are rally towels too?” David cried, pushing an impossible amount of pancake in his mouth. “God, I’m missing everything.”   
  
“Can’t you watch it on your phone later?” Emma asked. She should really answer Merida. Maybe the towels came early. That seemed like a good problem.

“I’m a Detective in the New York City Police Department, Emma. I’m not going to stream a sports game on my phone. That’s against some sort of code or oath or something.”  
  
“Or something.”   
  
“He’s totally going to stream the game on his phone,” Mary Margaret muttered, glancing at Emma over the top of the plate in her hand.

“Blasphemy,” David argued and there were more pancakes sitting on the counter in the kitchen than any of them were ever going to be able to eat. “You ever going to do your job, Em or you just going to let it shake a crack into the coffee table?”  
  
Emma stuck her tongue out. “Is that even possible?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Well you were the one going on about anatomy before. You should know these things. It’s a dad thing to know.”   
  
“Are you trying to suggest that my coffee table from Ikea and your kidneys are, somehow, the same thing?”   
  
There wasn’t really a ton of space on the couch – barely enough for Emma to sleep on it, let alone all three of them fit comfortably across it, but there weren’t any other chairs and this was already the most painfully domestic morning in the history of the known universe, so it only made sense for David to squeeze into the far corner.

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t know where my kidneys were,” Emma reasoned and David chuckled. Her phone, finally, stopped buzzing.

They ate in silence for a few moments – needing to eat at least _some_ of the ridiculous amount of food David made – and Emma was chewing another piece of bacon when Mary Margaret’s voice cut through the apartment.

“If I say I’m proud of you right now, will you lose your mind?”

Emma nearly dropped the plate. “What? And didn’t we have this conversation before?”  
  
Mary Margaret made a face, lowering her plate slowly and there wasn’t any room on the coffee table. There were too many wedding plans. “I just mean,” she started, twisting towards Emma until her feet were brushing up against her thighs. “Well, telling you you’ve _grown_ or something stupid is just as stupid as it sounds. But, whatever, you’re so...happy, Emma. And, I just, I’m happy for you and happy for Killian and…”   
  
“And a year ago you would have run for both the metaphorical and literal hills if the greater Los Angeles media contingent started publishing stories about any aspect of your life, let alone all of it,” David added, his own brand of _pride_ working into his smile.

Emma’s mouth hung open, bacon forgotten in her hand and her coffee was going to get cold before she had a chance to drink any of it.

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agreed. “That too.”  
  
“It’s not like I’m the only one who’s dealing with all of that,” Emma mumbled, not entirely certain what she was arguing exactly.   
  
“That’s what I mean. You’re not and he’s not and you’re still here, Emma. I wish there was another way to say I’m proud of you, but that’s all I can come up with.”   
  
“Well, it’s really early in the morning.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“And super emotional conversations probably aren’t best served over a ridiculous amount of breakfast food.”   
  
“I awkwardly tell you I’m proud on the couch, David cooks out his emotions. He set an alarm to go get all that food this morning.”   
  
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and her whole body felt warm. The coffee was still sitting on the table.

“You guys are,” she sighed and she couldn’t find the right words. She was absolutely horrible at talking. “Everything,” she finished and it wasn’t a lie.

It might have been the most truthful thing she’d ever said.

Mary Margaret was crying, tears falling down her face quickly and silently and David moved his hand to her shoulder, mouth halfway between hanging open and smiling and they’d never finish all the food at this rate.

“I never said thank you,” Emma mumbled, throat suddenly tight and just a bit dry and maybe she was crying too.

“You wouldn’t ever have to,” David said. Mary Margaret sniffled.

“I should have. You guys have been, well, everything. Honestly. You’re the reason I agreed to come here and I wouldn’t have...anything, if it weren’t for you. So, thank you. For all of it. From Boston until this breakfast feast.”  
  
“Can we stop calling it a feast? It’s just a well-balanced meal.”   
  
“Yeah for a bodybuilder, maybe.”

“You’re going to have to take some of this home,” Mary Margaret laughed, nodding back towards the pile of pancakes in the kitchen. “Post-game pancakes!”  
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh and her jaw was going to crack if she kept smiling like that. She didn’t care. And the girl who’d never believed in anything, who was certain she’d be alright with a dark and quiet apartment for her entire life, had found something she never thought she could hope for – a family.

“If they win, we’ll probably go to the restaurant,” Emma said. “I think A’s got half a plan already. She was talking about it before they left yesterday.”  
  
“I can’t believe they didn’t let you go,” David grumbled and Emma shrugged.

“You can’t ignore the hometown crowd when they can clinch. I knew it’d happen.”

She did. And it didn’t make it any less frustrating, even if there would be a giant screen in Chase Square and thousands of fans and rally towels.

Maybe.

She hoped the towels weren't part of the text messages she’d been ignoring.

As if on cue, Emma’s phone started buzzing again, a quick string of text messages and she tried not to groan when David started laughing. “See,” he said, stabbing a forkful of hashbrowns. “Putting cracks in the furniture.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and Mary Margaret hissed in her breath when she balanced her plate-full of food on the arm of the couch to grab her phone. “Relax, Reese’s,” Emma laughed, careful not to knock over a stack of wedding plans as she moved.

The thing was still buzzing her hands when she wrapped her fingers around it and she must have had twenty text messages at this point – and only one of them was from Merida.

She had nineteen text messages from Killian.

Make that twenty. Twenty-one.

“I’ll be right back,” Emma muttered, pushing off the couch with her eyes glued to her phone screen and neither David nor Mary Margaret tried to stop her.

Emma swung the front door open, not even bothering to put on shoes or slightly more appropriate clothes than the team-branded she was wearing – gym shorts and no socks and a t-shirt from that fan site that made t-shirts with ridiculous slogans and Ruby had given her this one with a laugh and it read _Penalty-Kill'ian_ in bright red letters.

She kind of loved it.

Ruby totally knew.

And her phone was ringing now.

“Hey,” Emma said, sliding down the wall in the hallway and she could hear footsteps on the other end. He was pacing. “Isn’t it super early in LA? It’s, like, six in the morning, right?”  
  
“Jumped right into timing didn’t we?” Killian asked and there was something on the edge of his voice that Emma didn’t quite expect, but probably should have been prepared for. He sounded nervous. That explained the pacing.

She sighed softly, trying to make it sound like an exhale and it didn’t really work because Killian sighed right back. “Did you sleep at all?” Emma pressed and she didn’t have laces to tug on anymore during moments like this.

“Robin snores.”  
  
“That’s not an answer to the question I just asked. And aren’t you breaking the gameday rules now? You’d think your superstitions would go haywire in the Finals.”   
  
Killian made a noise in the back of his throat and Emma got the distinct impression she was missing the joke or _something_ , certain he had a handful of thoughts on superstitions heading into the, possible, final of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“Sleeping was…”  
  
“Difficult?” Emma suggested and she shouldn’t be smiling, could still hear the nerves in the way his voice trailed off and he probably had his hand in his hair at this point, but she was somewhere in the realm of _certain_ they were going to win in a few hours and maybe, _maybe_ , he couldn’t sleep because she wasn’t in Los Angeles.

“That’s about as good an answer as any.”  
  
“A bit more PR than Robin snoring.”   
  
“I’m not all that interested in PR, Swan,” Killian muttered and she could hear him moving again, back bumping up against what sounded like a wall.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“The hotel hallway. I’m surprised they haven’t called the police on me, honestly. I look like I’m loitering. I’ve just been pacing around the same ten-foot space for the last few hours.”

“A right lurker.”  
  
Killian laughed under his breath – his hand was absolutely entrenched in his hair – and Emma’s smile somehow got even wider. Idiot. She’d probably lose her voice screaming later that night. God, she hoped they won.

“When do you have to be at Staples?” Emma asked, already certain it wasn’t for several hours.

“What time do you have to be at the Garden?”  
  
“That is not an answer,” she bit out and she couldn’t even make it sound like she was remotely frustrated with him.

“And you very clearly did not read my text messages.”  
  
“Way to completely call me out, Jones.”   
  
“There were a few.”   
  
“Twenty-one,” Emma corrected. “You sent me twenty-one text messages.”   
  
He scoffed and she wasn’t aware a _sound_ could be some sort of flashing neon sign, but if she hadn’t been certain he was nervous before, Emma was positive of it now, the quiet noise seemingly echoing in their respective hallways and coasts.

“Ah, well,” Killian sighed. “It was the middle of the night and I couldn’t sleep and this mattress is garbage…”  
  
“And not enough pillows,” she interrupted.

He clicked his tongue and she was going to break her jaw, smiling at no one in the middle of a building she didn’t actually live in anymore. “Maybe,” Killian said, but Emma would have bet he might have been smiling too.

Probably smirking.

Idiot.

They needed to win.

“Mostly the mattress though,” he continued. “I don’t know how they expect us to sleep on things like that. Probably the Kings doing. Maybe Gold’s trying to make sure I’m too exhausted to skate too.”  
  
“Killian,” Emma chastised and he laughed softly in her ear.

“No, no, you’re right, Swan. He’s not that creative.”

“Ruby said nothing happened yesterday.”

“Are you getting media updates from Lucas, love?”  
  
Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. Killian was still laughing. “Whatever,” she mumbled. “I didn’t want to ask you. Figured it’d be distracting or something.”   
  
“Swan, I sent you twenty-one text messages because I couldn’t fall asleep in Los Angeles without you here. I don’t think we need to be worried about anyone distracting anyone else at this point.”

Her heart was doing something stupid.

It was beating too fast or maybe her kidneys, now that she knew where they were, were doing something, and she bit her lip tightly so she wouldn’t tell him she didn’t want to stay in her apartment without him next to her the night before.

“What were they about?” she asked instead and Killian hummed in confusion. “I mean the text messages. What were they about?”  
  
“Are you not reading them yet? I’m almost insulted, Swan.”   
  
“Almost?”   
  
“Ah, well you answered your phone, so that seems more important than the text messages.”   
  
“Is there a plus-minus rating between actual phone calls and text messages?”   
  
Killian laughed and Emma was almost positive the sound had worked its way across the entire goddamn continental United States and settled in the pit of her stomach, right next to the pancakes and the bacon.

“I thought we decided that was an antiquated stat, Swan,” Killian said. “And I’m not even entirely sure that makes sense in this situation.”  
  
“Tell me about the text messages, Jones.”   
  
“Ah, well, there wasn’t really much rhyme or reason to them. Complaining about Robin. Complaining about media. Complaining about the mattress in this hotel.”   
  
“I’m sensing a trend.”   
  
“There were a couple of LA facts in there too.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Killian hummed. “The film industry moved to Hollywood to get away from Thomas Edison,” he said.   
  
“What?” Emma laughed and she could dimly make out footsteps on the other side of Mary Margaret and David’s front door. “What did Thomas Edison have to do with the film industry?”   
  
“He had a ridiculous number of patents.”   
  
“You’re stalling. Spit out your fact, Captain.”   
  
“I am telling a story, Swan. Keeping you interested, as it were.”   
  
“Yeah, you don’t need to do that.”   
  
“That so?” he asked and Emma rolled her eyes. He chuckled softly when she didn’t actually answered. “Alright. So Edison had all these patents and he owned most of the country’s film patents at the time since he was some kind of idea and patent hoarder. So the industry moved west to avoid his intellectual property claims.”   
  
“That is actually pretty interesting.”   
  
“See, told you.”   
  
“Did you drag out the Edison story over several text messages?”   
  
“Nah,” Killian objected. “That was just one of the highlights.”   
  
“One of?”

“Twenty-one text messages is a lot of material to work with, Swan.”  
  
She nodded seriously – fully aware he couldn’t see her, but probably knew what she was doing anyway – and pulled her phone away from her ear, clicking back on her inbox. The towels, apparently, had made it to the Garden.

And Killian hadn’t been lying – there was a good amount of complaining about Robin and the Edison story and she was still smiling eyes tracing down the string of messages until she got to the last few.

**I can hear Robin snoring from the hallway. That can’t be healthy, right? Maybe we should tell Gina. She probably already knows.**

**I hope you, at least, got some sleep, love. Maybe we should just move my mattress into your apartment.**

**Just swap them out.**

**That makes sense, right? Makes sense. It’s also almost six o’clock in the morning, so who knows what actually makes sense.**

**Oh, shit, that means it’s almost nine at home. What time do you have to get to the Garden? Hold on, I’ll just call.**

Her heart was doing that thing again – beating and probably hitting her ribs loud enough that Killian could hear it across several time zones.

“Still with me, Swan?” he asked and she could barely hear him, still holding her phone lightly in her hand with her mouth hanging open a few inches.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma answered quickly. “Sorry. I was, uh, I was reading your messages.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
“How much sleep did you actually get?”   
  
“Couple hours.”   
  
“Yeah, me too.”   
  
Emma appreciated whatever noise he made on the other end of the line, something that sounded like a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Wait, what?” he asked, mumbling the words and his hand was probably tugging on his hair.

“Yeah, well, Reese’s couch is kind of the worst. And I think I kind of knew when you were texting me because a lot of your timestamps match up with when I was waking up.”

“Why are you at Mary Margaret’s?” Killian asked and he’d brushed right over her poor attempt at a joke. “Why aren’t you home?”

She hadn’t expected that. She’d expected _your apartment_ , she’d expected _downtown_ , she hadn’t expected Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers and just a few hours removed from, maybe, a Stanley Cup, to call her apartment _home_.   
  
“Swan,” Killian pressed. “Did you go home last night?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And I couldn’t stay there.”   
  
“Couldn't?”   
  
“God, Killian, stop repeating everything I’m saying.”   
  
“To be fair, I only repeated that one thing. The other part was just trying to get some more information out of you.”   
  
Emma groaned and scrunched her nose when she bumped the back of her head against the wall she was leaning on. “Yeah, well, this wasn’t really the plan,” she grumbled. “I wasn’t…”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said quickly, just a bit breathless as she rushed over the words. “It’s decidedly clingy and stupidly relationship'y, but then you said you wanted to move your mattress into my apartment and, well, I didn’t like being there by myself. It was quiet and dark and I swear there’s a dent on your side of the bed now and so it was, like, almost midnight and I got a cab and came up here and David let me sleep on the couch. I don’t think Reese’s even realized I was here until he started cooking.”   
  
Killian didn’t say anything immediately, but Emma could hear him moving again, something that might have been the ridiculously long beard he _absolutely, could not trim_ brushing against the side of his phone.

“Stupidly relationship'y,” he said, breaking the silence after what felt like an actual eternity.

“You’re repeating me again,” Emma muttered and she could _hear_ his smirk.

“That’s because I’ve never heard anyone use that phrase in the history of the entire world.”

“I knew you were old, Captain, but I didn’t realize you had experience with the history of the entire world.”  
  
“That’s rude, Swan.”   
  
“You walked right into it. Skated even.”

“See, now I know you’re tired. You’re making horrible puns at whatever time it is now.”  
  
“Almost 9:30, I think. I’m surprised Reese’s hasn’t come out here to make sure I eat more pancakes.”

“There are pancakes?”  
  
“David made some kind of breakfast feast.”   
  
Killian huffed slightly and it might have been a laugh or maybe a bit of want and Emma found herself wishing she was in Los Angeles for, what she was certain, would not be the last time that day. “I’ll save you some pancakes,” she added. “Reese’s is making me bring some home.”

He needed to learn how to answer quicker – the silence was making _her_ nervous and Emma bit her lip tightly again when Killian didn’t respond.

“Still with me, Jones?” Emma asked, throwing his own question back in his face and she probably should have brought her coffee in the hallway.

A door opened somewhere in Los Angeles and Killian made a noise – another mix of surprise and something that sounded decidedly like frustration. “God, what?” he asked sharply, before quickly adding, “That wasn’t directed at you, Swan.”

“Yeah, no I kind of figured,” she laughed.

Someone grunted and then someone else sighed and Emma tried not to laugh loudly, sure that she’d draw the ire of either one of the sleep-deprived New York Rangers on the other end.

“What is your problem?” Killian hissed and he was definitely the one doing the groaning, the sound of a hand smacking against the side of his head barely audible. “God, Locksley, relax. You’re going to concuss me.”  
  
“Stop talking so loudly,” Robin said softly, but there was enough acid in his voice to probably melt the paint off the wall Killian was still leaning against.

One of them tried to hit the other one again – or that’s what it sounded like – and Emma was openly laughing now, the sound of it, finally, drawing David into the hallway. He leaned around the edge of the doorframe, tossing a curious look her way and Emma tried to brush him off. It didn’t work.

“Everything ok?” David asked.

“Fine, Detective,” Emma promised. “Stand down.”  
  
“You were kind of loud.”   
  
“That’s a trait for both of them apparently,” Robin shouted and Emma wondered how he’d managed to hear a comment several thousand miles away. “Did she wake you up too, David?”   
  
“It’s nine in the morning there,” Killian muttered.

“How are you hearing all of this?” Emma asked, thumb brushing across the back of her wrist out of instinct. “And it’s after 9:30 now.”

“Closer to ten if you want to get technical,” David added.

Emma groaned and David grinned at her, stepping into the hallway with her coffee mug in his hands. “Oh, shit, I need to get ready. Mer’s probably having a meltdown over the towels.”

“Save Rol and Henry a towel, would you, Emma?” Robin shouted. Killian muttered something under his breath that sounded like _she can hear you, Locksley, no need to break my eardrums_ and the Locksley-Mills family was in Los Angeles.

“There’s already a note on my desk for Mer to keep towels and shirts for both of them,” Emma said. David groaned. “God, David, I’ll get you some towels, relax.”

“And a shirt?” he added.

“And a shirt.”  
  
“Thanks, Emma,” Robin said, still shouting and Killian was still mumbling words under his breath.

“No problem. Might as well do it for all the children on this team.”  
  
“I brought your coffee out here,” David yelled, glaring at her as she tugged the mug towards her. “And made pancakes.”   
  
“Delicious pancakes. That I’m sure Reese’s has already put in some sort of tupperware container she’s not going to let me return.”   
“You need tupperware, Emma. You can’t just exist with plastic wrap and foil.”

“That is true, Swan,” Killian said and David threw his hands up triumphantly.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Stop agreeing with him or I’ll hide the pancakes when you get home later tonight.”  
  
“If we win, A’s totally going to force us to the restaurant,” Robin reasoned. Emma wished everyone would leave her conversation. She wished Killian would move his mattress into her apartment and then maybe a whole bunch of other things that she’d been thinking and trying to ignore.

Win a Cup first.

“That doesn’t have any impact on the pancakes,” Killian said. “Go back to sleep, Locksley. You’ve still got three hours until wakeup.”  
  
“Can you get to REM by then? You’re not supposed to sleep if you can’t get to REM. It just makes you more exhausted.”

“God, I don’t care, just go back in the room.”

David smiled and this entire conversation might have been on speaker for how easily everyone could hear each other. “Fine,” Robin said. “I better get back to REM. I’ll see you if we win, Emma. Have fun with the fans.”  
  
“When,” she corrected quickly. “No jinx.”   
  
“No jinx. Don’t talk too loud, Cap.”

The door in Los Angeles slammed shut again and Emma’s phone vibrated in her hand, no doubt an anxious Merida looking for an updated itinerary. She glanced up at David, still a few feet away from her, and eyed the door meaningfully.

“Alright, alright, alright, I get the hint,” he said. “Score a bunch of goals, Killian.”  
  
Killian scoffed, but he was absolutely still smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.” He waited five seconds after the second door slammed shut before laughing loudly on the other end and Emma pressed her lips together tightly, resting her mug on her still-bent knees. “He gone now?”   
  
“Yeah,” she answered. “Back behind closed doors. Probably making more pancakes to force on me.”   
  
“Ah, well, that just means there’s more when I get home.”   
  
“Tonight. You’ll be home tonight. With a Stanley Cup.”   
  
“You don’t know that.”   
  
“Yes, I do,” Emma argued, doing her best to put every ounce of conviction and certainty she could in three words.

“No jinx.”  
  
“Bring your Conn-Smythe back with you too. It’ll look great next to the small mountain of tupperware I’m accumulating in the kitchen.”

“You want to put a Finals MVP award in the kitchen, Swan?”  
  
“Ah, well, it’d be yours. Up to you where to put it, I guess.”

He laughed softly and she could feel her pulse beating out in every inch of her body, walking some kind of almost-joke, almost-serious line that probably wasn’t entirely appropriate for the morning of a Stanley Cups clincher.

“That’s fair,” Killian muttered. “We’ll put it in your room then. In the corner by the window.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath, tugging her hair over her shoulder and she couldn’t stop biting her lip. “Yeah, ok,” she agreed. “It’ll look good there.”   
  
“You sound very certain I’m going to win the Conn-Smythe.”   
  
“And the Hart, but that’s a different conversation. Plus, you should try to get to REM too.”   
  
“I have no idea what he was talking about there. I think he was delirious.”   
  
“And I think you could use some sleep.”   
  
“Tonight, Swan, I promise.”   
  
She’d been holding her breath. She hadn’t really realized until it rushed out of her, making her shoulders sag and she nearly dropped her coffee. “Deal. Go win a Cup, Jones.”   
  
“That’s the plan, love.” 

* * *

“We’ve got to be breaking some kind of fire code, right?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder at Merida and Mary Margaret, both of them decked out in head-to-toe blue with matching headsets.

“It’s outside, boss,” Merida reasoned. “I don’t think it counts.”  
  
Emma bit her lip, tilting her head back and forth as she took stock of the several thousand fans packed into the open-air space in front of the Garden. Most of them had stopped caring about anything she’d planned an hour ago – every aspect of Rangerstown forgotten as soon as the game started and she wasn’t sure if they were still doing the bet, but she was absolutely still keeping track, a pen stuck in her hair and Mary Margaret muttering updates on hits like that was even remotely something she should be worried about.

“Will just hit somebody,” she said, nudging Emma’s shoulder.

Emma added another tally underneath Will’s name and there was a collective groan from the crowd, making her jerk her head up with wide eyes and she might have actually gasped.

Philip was very fast  – a blue blur streaking towards the Kings net and they’d had chances all game, enough crossbars to elevate her blood pressure and cause Arthur to break, at least, three different whiteboards, but it was still 0-0 midway through the third. And maybe she’d been keeping track of bet points just to distract herself.

Mary Margaret totally knew that too.

“Go, go, go, go,” Emma mumbled, bouncing up on the balls of her feet until Merida actually started laughing at her.

The crowd cheered with her, a mix of screams and shouts and probably a fair share of curses when Philip shot over the left shoulder of the Kings goalie. He hit the crossbar.

“Fuck,” Emma hissed at the same time Mary Margaret muttered _shit_ under her breath. Emma spun around, eyes wide and mouth half hanging open and Mary Margaret shrugged. “Who are you, right now?”   
  
“That was the  best chance we’ve had all night.”   
  
“We?”   
  
“Them. Philip. Killian should have scored in the second.”   
  
That was true. He’d been right in front of the net and they’d been in the zone for what had felt like several hours, but he didn’t get enough on the shot and it had been the easiest save the Kings goalie had all night.

“Don’t tell him that when you see him later,” Merida suggested.

“Please,” Mary Margaret argued. “He’ll be far too busy staring at Emma to even realize I’ve formed any sort of hockey-based opinion on how he’s been playing tonight.”  
  
Merida chuckled softly and Emma still hadn’t closed her mouth. “Yeah,” she laughed. “That’s fair.”   
  
“I’m standing right here,” Emma groaned.   
  
“I know you are,” Mary Margaret said and Emma got the distinct impression she was missing something. “And I’m just saying if we win tonight, Killian absolutely, positively isn’t going to be concerned with anything I’m thinking.”   
  
She was definitely missing something. Mary Margaret was smiling far too much.

“What do you know that I don’t?” Emma asked, eyes darting back towards the screen when the crowd started to make noise again.

“Nothing.”  
  
“Reese’s.”   
  
“Really. I don’t know anything you don’t know.”   
  
“But you’ve got some suspicions.”   
  
“How could you possibly know that?”

Emma lifted her eyebrows and it wasn’t easy to cross her arms while she was holding a clipboard and a stack of papers with tally marks for a bet she probably didn’t have to pay attention to anymore, but she made it work and Mary Margaret couldn’t seem to meet her gaze anymore.

“Reese’s,” Emma said slowly. “You’re blushing. Come on, spit it out.”  
  
Mary Margaret pressed her tongue on the inside of her cheek, eyes darting between Emma and Merida. “She’s going to figure it out sooner or later,” Merida muttered.

“Figure what out?”  
  
“Do you absolutely promise not to freak out?” Mary Margaret asked. “Because I know it’s not actually true.”   
  
“If it’s not actually true, then there’s no point in freaking out, right?”

Merida made a noise in the back of her throat. They didn’t have time for this. There was five minutes left in this game and no one had scored yet and maybe Emma was going to start breaking clipboards. “Wait until you hear the rumor, boss.”

“Alright,” Emma sighed. “I’ll bite. What is it?”  
  
Mary Margaret wavered again and Emma tried to smile, but there was something gnawing at the back of her brain and the pit of her stomach and she hadn’t actually had enough time to eat after the breakfast feast that morning.

She was starving.

“Ariel told me,” Mary Margaret started. Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the preface. “I told her it wasn’t true.”  
  
“That’s still not actually telling me whatever it is that’s happening.”   
  
“She said that Anna said that the entire team thinks Killian’s going to propose if they win,” Mary Margaret said, half shouting the words in Emma’s face.

She took a step back out of instinct and, Mary Margaret was right, that absolutely, positively was not true. They couldn’t even talk about actually moving into a single apartment without dancing around the subject in some kind of almost-adorable way that included discussions of mattresses and Conn-Smythe trophies.

But.

It was the but that gave Emma pause – even if it was just in the back corner of her mind.

Maybe.

She shook her head, forcing thoughts of _whatever_ away as quickly as they came, and Mary Margaret bit her lip tightly, waiting for the inevitable fallout of a rumor Emma wasn’t supposed to hear.

“No,” she said, not entirely certain what she was disagreeing to.

“No,” Mary Margaret repeated and it sounded a bit like a question.

“I’m not freaking out, Reese’s. I’m just telling you that’s not a thing that is actually happening. I don’t know where Anna got that idea.”  
Mary Margaret looked disappointed. Of course she did. “I know, I know. I told Ariel that and everybody kind of knows that already, but…”   
  
“But what?”   
  
“But he has been spending a lot of time in your apartment during the run.”   
  
“Superstitions,” Emma argued, well aware that it was an excuse as well. She should probably just ask him. After they won. She’d ask him after they won. Maybe. Probably. Or maybe she’d just tell him they should buy a brand-new mattress that they both wanted.

“Yeah, ok.”  
  
“A rather pointed opinion.”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged again and even Merida looked unconvinced, but Emma didn’t have a chance to follow up her argument with something a bit more concrete. The crowd started making noise again and Emma spun at the sound – just a few minutes left in regulation and she wasn’t certain she had the emotional fortitude to deal with overtime at this point.

The shot wasn’t perfect.

It was wobbly and the headlines would probably include the phrase _bad bounce_ when it ended up on the backpage the next morning.

They’d been in the zone for awhile, Los Angeles passing through lanes that probably wouldn’t have existed if it hadn’t been so late in the third and they weren’t all so visibly exhausted, not able to change and the puck _bounced_ when it moved through the crease.

It got tipped.

That’s why Jefferson couldn’t save it and it wasn’t really anybody’s fault, but Emma could feel her shoulders sag and the breath fall out of her as soon as she saw the puck slide under his left leg, hitting up against the back corner of the net.

The light went off.

The Kings scored.

“Shit,” she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut and Mary Margaret made some sort of impossible fandom noise next to her.

The crowd wasn’t just going to, maybe, break fire codes. They were going to riot right there in front of the Garden.

“What a piece of garbage shot,” Merida mumbled. Emma still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“Deliciae.”

Emma groaned, pressing her fingers into her cheeks until it almost hurt and that might have actually just been the feeling of _whatever_ sitting in her stomach and the back of her brain and they wouldn’t have to go uptown later tonight.

That was probably for the best.

She might have actually killed Ariel if she saw her.

The buzzer went off after what felt like an eternity of the last two minutes of regulation and they’d pulled Jeff and hit the post again and the _almost_ of it all felt like it was actually slapping Emma in the face.

God, she was disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret mumbled several hours later, her headset hanging around her neck now and she’d stayed even after Merida left, volunteering to help take down Rangerstown booths with a fervor Emma shouldn’t have been surprised by.

“It’s alright, Reese’s,” Emma said. “Both things.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“You didn’t start the rumor.”

“Oh.”  
  
Emma smiled, glancing over her shoulder and Mary Margaret was barely visible over the amount of blue-colored merch she was holding. “Here,” she said, grabbing some of the merch and tossing it in a pile that would, eventually, take up residence in the back corner of her office. “Anyway, I feel like I should be paying you at this point for all the help.”   
  
“Please,” Mary Margaret sighed, rolling her eyes for good measure. “I wanted to.”

There was a lot of _extra_ to this conversation. And Emma’s maid of honor speech would probably set some kind of record for length...and general sappiness.

She glanced down at her phone – silent for what felt like the first time in several weeks, not the few hours it had been – and she hadn’t really expected Kilian to text her back, but she kept looking at her phone and Mary Margaret absolutely knew that too.

“Did David text you?” Emma asked, a bit desperate for a subject change and something else to think about.

As if on cue, Mary Margaret’s phone made noise and she laughed under her breath, tugging it out of her back pocket. She stopped laughing rather quickly.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Hey,” Mary Margaret said, pulling her phone up to her ear and decidedly ignoring Emma’s groan. “Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Yeah, like two feet away from me. No, obviously we didn’t.”  
  
“What is going on?” Emma asked and Mary Margaret glared at her when she tried to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Stop that,” she muttered. “When would have had the time, Ruby?”

Emma’s eyes widened to a size she was certain was dangerous and she hit Mary Margaret’s shoulder a bit harder than she’d meant to. “Ruby? What does Ruby want?”

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, pulling Emma’s hand away from her shoulder and she could barely make out Ruby’s voice on the other end, rushing over words and grumbling at someone in front of her.

She thought she heard the word _disaster_ several times.

“Speaker,” Ruby shouted. “God, Mary Margaret put me on speaker.”  
  
“Ok, well, there’s no need to be rude,” Mary Margaret mumbled, but she did it anyway, holding the phone loosely in between her and Emma.

“Did you do it?”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“I can’t see you Mary Margaret, I don’t know what you’re doing.”   
  
“What’s going on, Ruby?” Emma asked and Mary Margaret didn’t argue when she pulled the phone out of her hands.

Ruby groaned, slamming a door shut in Los Angeles and Emma shot Mary Margaret a worried look. She was biting her lip again. “It’s a mother fucking disaster, that’s what it is.”  
  
“You’ve got to actually explain things, Rubes.”   
  
“You really didn’t see post?”   
  
“We’ve been kind of busy running some sort of enormous fan event.”   
  
“Yeah, how’d that go? Zelena wanted to know.”

“We lost,” Emma said shortly and Ruby groaned again. “What’s the disaster?”  
  
Ruby took a deep breath and it sounded as if she’d slid down a wall. “You want the long answer or the short answer?”   
  
“Which one is more disastrous?”

“They’re both pretty awful.”

Emma rolled her eyes and Mary Margaret shifted a few inches closer to her until her hand was on her shoulder. “Alright, start at the beginning.”  
  
“They quoted Gold.”   
  
The world was shaking. Or maybe it had stopped spinning. And that would probably alter gravity somehow, right? It didn’t really matter. Ruby’s voice was practically ringing in the space in front of the Garden and Emma’s legs were quite as sturdy as they’d been before Mary Margaret’s phone rang.

“ _The Times_ , again, of course, the fucking assholes,” Ruby continued, understanding Emma’s stunned silence for what it was. A mix of terror and concern and worry and, well, disaster might be the best word for it.

Mary Margaret squeezed Emma’s shoulder and her smile wasn’t quite genuine. “What did he say?”  
  
“They asked him about the release.”

A mother fucking disaster.

“What?” Emma asked. “Jeez, why?”  
  
“Why has any of this happened?” Ruby argued. “Because they’re trying to ruin everything and they’re all a bunch of dicks. A bag of actual dicks.”   
  
“I thought we’d settled on assholes.”   
  
“Nope. They’ve been upgraded to a bag of actual dicks.”   
  
Emma scoffed, but she still couldn't really breathe and Ruby still hadn’t actually answered Mary Margaret’s question. And they all knew she was stalling.

“It’s out now,” Ruby continued. “At least on the web. It’ll probably be in print tomorrow. Since, you know, that’s how newspapers work. Whatever, it’s a dying industry anyway.”  
  
“You don’t have to insult newspapers for me, Rubes,” Emma said.

“Wait until you click the link I just sent you.”  
  
Emma’s phone _dinged_ and she grabbed it quickly, a mix dread and nerves settling in between her ribs. She took a deep breath before she clicked the link and it was just as bad as she thought it would be.

_“I don’t entirely understand it,” Gold said during Game Five, watching the Finals matchup from his personal suite in the Staples Center. “Jones is far more trouble than he’s worth, especially to the Rangers. He’s had a few good moments this series, but I can’t imagine a situation where a major-market team like New York is willing to sign him after all of this.”_

_But what about Gold’s earlier insistence that he and the Kings were working on bringing Jones to Los Angeles ahead of the trade deadline?_

_“At the time, I was willing to overlook anything off-ice,” Gold said, alluding to the reports that Jones was, at one time, connected to his late wife Milah Onde. “Jones has always been talented, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a distraction. Look at that business with his brother. I want to bring a Cup back to Los Angeles and, at one point, I thought Jones might have been able to help that. Turns out we didn’t need. I doubt New York will after the season is over either.”_

“God, what a dick,” Mary Margaret hissed and Emma nearly dropped her phone. Both of them. She was holding two phones at once.

“Reese’s! Oh my God!”  
  
“I mean, it’s true, Emma,” Ruby reasoned. “There’s no way around what a monumental dick this guy is.”   
  
“Did...did Killian see yet?” Ruby clicked her tongue and Emma’s heart plummeted in her stomach. Or possibly onto the ground. That probably wasn’t very hygienic. “What?”

“There’s, uh, there’s more.”  
  
“More than an entire story in _The Los Angeles Times_?”  
  
“Well, the story went up in the third period. And someone on that sports desk sold their soul or something because it went up and the Kings scored, like, two seconds later.”   
  
“What happened, Ruby?”

She didn’t actually answer – just sent another link and Mary Margaret chuckled softly when Emma rolled her eyes again.

It was a video.

And now Emma realized why Ruby kept talking about post.

It wasn’t a long clip, less than a full minute, but Emma was almost surprised Arthur didn’t actually leap over the dais in the Staples Center media room and just start punching whoever had asked the question.

_“Excuse me?” Arthur asked, head tilted slightly and hand tugging on his tie._

_“You didn’t see the story?”_

_“I was kind of busy coaching a Stanley Cup Finals game.”_ _  
_ _  
“Mr. Gold commented on the future of Jones in New York. Anything you’d like to add to that?” _ _  
_ _  
“Why would Gold be commenting on my winger’s future in New York? As far as I can tell he doesn’t own this team.” _ _  
  
“True, but there’s been quite a bit of talk this series about Jones’ antics off the ice and then you guys did send out that press release.”_

Emma hissed her breath and she could feel Mary Margaret’s worried gaze boring into the side of her head. The video was still playing.

_“I don’t write the press releases,” Arthur continued, voice strained just a bit as he tried to steady his temper. A muscle in his jaw ticked._

_“But you must read them.”_ _  
_ _  
“Obviously.” _ _  
_ _  
“And you don’t have any sort of opinion on Jones’ free agent status? Or his life away from the game? I mean, another story comes out and you guys get shut out tonight when you could have clinched…” _ _  
_ _  
“And you think that’s, specifically, Killian Jones’ fault?” _ _  
  
“I don’t know.”_

_Arthur groaned, forearms resting on the top of the dais and he nearly knocked the microphone off its stand. “Alright, you know, what,” he muttered. “Fine. Fine. I have read the press release and I agree with the damn press release because Killian Jones is the best hockey player I’ve ever seen. He’s got the sharpest shot of any player I’ve ever coached and I might want to strangle him for how often he turns the puck over in the goddamn neutral zone, but I’d take every single one of them to keep him on this team and in New York._

_And I couldn’t give a shit about whatever he does off the ice. I’ve known Jones for nearly five seasons now and nothing he’s done off the ice has had any sort of impact on what this team has accomplished this year. We’re in the fucking Stanley Cup Finals! You think that’s some sort of distraction or detriment? That’s insane. Absolutely insane.”_ _  
_ _He was picking up speed as he was going, voice mumbled and words sharp as they seemed to echo off the walls of the room._

_He wasn’t even close to being done._

_“But,” Arthur shouted, standing up quickly and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “More than any of the stats or the accolades, and if he doesn’t win the Hart, it’s a goddamn joke, Killian Jones is the soul of this team. He’s the captain for a reason and that doesn’t stop when the game ends. That is something he carries every single moment he’s awake and probably when he isn’t because that’s who he is. God, you realize what a bunch of shit you lot have put him through this series?_

_He’s given everything to this team and this franchise and the group of guys on this roster know it. The Rangers fans know it. I know it. And if we don’t bring Jones back to some kind of max deal, no matter what happens in this series, I don’t….it wouldn’t make any sense to me. So, yeah, I’ve got an opinion on the press release. I think it’s the smartest thing this team has put out all season because Killian Jones is this team.”_

_The room was silent and Arthur didn’t move, arms just as tight and eyes just as narrowed, like he was challenging someone to ask him another question._

_“And,” he added, “if I see any speculation about my player’s private lives in any of your stories tomorrow, I’ll fucking blackball the lot of you and enjoy it.”_ _  
_ _  
Arthur nodded once and walked out of the room_.

Emma’s legs gave out. Her knees buckled and she was sitting in a heap on the ground before she realized she’d even moved, Mary Margaret’s hand hovering in the air over the spot her shoulder had been.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, head falling forward until her chin rested on her team-branded t-shirt. “How much? Ruby, how much?”  
  
“Will he get fined?” Emma made a noise and Ruby sighed. “I don’t know. Probably a shit ton if I’m being honest.”   
  
Emma blinked and bit her tongue tightly. Mary Margaret’s phone buzzed in her hand – David must have seen the video. “You’ve got to get home, Em,” Ruby continued, tone low and serious and the entire city of Los Angeles could fall into the Pacific Ocean for all Emma cared at this point.

“What? Why? I’ve got stuff to do here.”  
  
“How much longer?”   
  
“I don’t know, what do you think Reese’s? Half an hour?”   
  
Mary Margaret rocked back on her heels. “If even. We’ve just got to bring that stuff back up to your office.”

“Don’t go to your office, Em,” Ruby snapped and she could hear her heels clicking in whatever hallway she was moving through. “Bring the stuff home with you.”  
  
“It’ll take two seconds,” Emma argued.

“And that’s two seconds you don’t have. C’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t immediately think of it. You’re losing some of your PR instincts.”  
  
Emma made a noise, blinking twice and it hit her with the force of some kind of mac truck. “Oh, shit, you think so?”   
  
“Arthur makes some sort of post-game speech about Killian’s personal life and they’ve already realized you’re not in Los Angeles? Absolutely.”   
  
“Emma, look,” Mary Margaret said, nodding towards 33rd Street and she heard the shutter click before she saw the flash go off, someone shouting her name a few feet away.

“Go home, Emma,” Ruby said again and a car honked almost at the same time.

“What did you do?” Emma asked and she could quite keep the accusation out of her voice.

Ruby mumbled something to someone else in Los Angeles and Emma could almost _see_ her brushing off the question. “Didn’t you read David’s text messages?”   
  
“We’re on the phone with you.”   
  
“You can do more than one thing with a phone at the same time, Emma. Welcome to the future.”   
  
“Shut up.”   
  
“David saw the video. David texted me a lot of caps locked messages about the video and then David agreed that you should also go home as soon as humanly possible.”   
  
“What does that have to do with the car?” Emma asked, standing back up and taking some of the _Rangerstown_ signs they’d piled up behind them. She ignored whoever was shouting her name, another flash going off as she and Mary Margaret climbed into the backseat of the waiting town car.

“We got you a car,” Ruby answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Or David did because he’s in the same city as you and can order an Uber easier than I can and, well, he’s David, so he’s super overprotective. Just be glad it wasn’t a squad car.”

Emma sighed, resting her head on the back of the seat while Mary Margaret gave the driver the addresses. “We’re leaving soon,” Ruby continued. “The guys are getting on the bus now.”

“Oh,” Emma muttered and Killian still hadn’t texted her back.

“I think he was on the phone before,” Ruby said, answering a question no one had actually asked. “Sounding like a lot of dramatic sighing.”  
  
Emma nodded knowingly. “It was probably El. They couldn’t get to the game. Did you see the Vankalds?”   
  
“No, although I wasn’t in the locker room very long.”

“Ok.”

“It’ll be fine, Em.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Her phone was just as silent as ever, Mary Margaret’s gaze snapping to her quickly before she tried to look out the window like she wasn’t waiting for Emma to have some sort of complete meltdown.  

“You out of the Garden yet?” Ruby asked.

“Driving up 8th as we speak.”  
  
“Good.”   
  
“It’s fine,” Emma said, not sure if she was talking to Ruby or Mary Margaret. “I’m just going to go home.”

She did. Mary Margaret tried to convince her to come back to the loft, but Emma shook her head, promising, again how _fine_ it was before grabbing a stack of signs and taking the stairs to her apartment. She dropped the in the corner behind the door and Emma didn’t really remember falling asleep, just waking up when she heard the crash.

She blinked, heart stuttering in her chest and maybe she should have gone back to the loft. At least David had a bat. And a badge.

Emma tugged the blanket off the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders and taking slow, measured steps back towards the front door. “Alright,” she said and the shadow in front of her seemed to snap to attention. “It’s been a shit day and I don’t even have anything remotely valuable in here, so just, like, get out.”  
  
She took another step forward and the shadow was a bit more corporeal now staring at her with a look of incredulity that made her breath catch just a bit.

“Do you think I’m robbing you, Swan?” Killian asked and the blanket fell off her shoulders. He’d hit the signs with his bag – that’s what the crash had been. He’d brought all his gear back to her apartment.

She exhaled loudly, shaking her head slowly and he was grinning at her, eyes almost unfairly bright for whatever time it was in the middle of the night. “I just…”  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer you.”   
  
“What?”

Killian slid the bag off his shoulder and Emma’s eyes widened when it landed loudly on the floor. He took a step towards her, head tilted slightly like he was asking permission to move and she saw the muscles in his throat move when she didn’t stop him.

“You texted me,” Killian said softly, hand falling on her hip and the blanket was still sitting in a heap on the floor.

“Yeah, I did.”  
  
“And I didn’t answer. That’s what I’m apologizing for.”   
  
“In person?”   
  
Killian’s opened his mouth, only to close it just as quickly and Emma scrunched her nose. “I wanted to come home,” he mumbled, ducking his eyes to stare at her sock-less feet.

She took a deep breath, shoulders moving with the effort of it and brought both of her hands up to rest on the jacket and tie he was still wearing. “It was very quiet here,” she whispered. “Until you knocked over all my promo stuff.”

He laughed, leaning forward quickly to wrap his hands around both of her forearms and Emma might have collapsed into the blanket when he kissed her forehead. “I wasn’t expecting that,” Killian admitted. “How’d it go?”

“You’re asking me that? What time is it even?”  
  
“Somewhere in the realm of seven in the morning.”   
  
Emma sighed, knocking her knuckles against his chest. “Did you just land? Have you slept at all?”   
  
“Yes and kind of.”   
  
“Kind of?”   
  
“Well, we did lose, Swan.”   
  
He’d kept his tone light, somewhere in the realm of _joking_ , but she could feel him stiffen underneath her hands and he wasn’t breathing evenly, quick bursts of air like he couldn’t quite fill his lungs completely.

“That wasn’t your fault,” she said and they hadn’t moved an inch.

“Mrs. V was very quick to point that out.”  
  
“And El?”   
  
“How could you know that?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Ruby said you were on the phone,” she answered. “I kind of put two and two together.”   
  
“If you talked to Ruby then….”   
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m all up to speed,” Emma said and she couldn't quite ignore the look on his face, a mix of nerves and frustration and something that might have just been complete exhaustion.

“Arthur shouldn’t have said anything.”  
  
Emma groaned. “He should have said something weeks ago. I’m surprised he hadn’t. Every single thing he said was right.” Killian made a face, twisting his mouth and she tightened her grip on his shirt. “Did they announce the fine yet?”   
  
“The league called somewhere over Utah. Fifty thousand. We’re, uh, we’re going to pay it.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“The team,” Killian said, shrugging slightly. “It’s cheaper that way and, well, Arthur shouldn’t have to pay for me...fucking up.”   
  
“That’s not what this is.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“It isn’t,” she yelled, taking a step back and his shoulders sagged. “God, stop. This isn’t….this isn’t your fault.”   
  
“Why did you bring the signs home, Swan?”   
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly and it was seven in the morning. She wanted to go back to bed. She wanted to make sure Killian slept.

Stupid, perceptive idiot.

“Swan,” Killian repeated, narrowing his eyes as he tugged her hands away from her side, lacing his fingers through hers. “What happened?”  
  
“There were some people,” she answered evasively, kicking at the blanket at her feet.

“People? People who wanted to ask questions?”  
  
“I don’t know, they didn’t really do anything except yell my name and take pictures.”   
  
His grip tightened on her hand and he rolled his shoulders back, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Pictures?”

“It doesn’t matter. David called a car and we got here and the event went really well, all things considered.” She didn’t mention the rest of it – the rumor or Mary Margaret’s knowing gaze or even the fact that he’d shown up at her apartment as soon as he landed in New York, the word _home_ ringing in her head.

Killian didn’t let go of her hand, tugging her fingers up and brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I love you,” he muttered softly and she could feel it in every single inch of her.

“Some sort of team.”  
  
He hummed, smile tugging on the ends of his lips and Emma sighed against him as soon as his lips hit hers. It was far too late – or maybe too early – to be anything but slow, measured movements that had become almost familiar at this point, his hand low on her back and her arm draped over his shoulder, pressed up on tiptoes to reach him easier.

Killian’s fingers traced up her spine and Emma moved, hips hitting his until he groaned against her. “You brought your stuff here,” Emma mumbled and eventually she wouldn't talk during _moments_ like these.

“We covered this Swan,” he said, kicking at the blanket and walking her away from the door. “I wanted to come home.”  
  
“Be more specific.”   
  
“To you,” Killian muttered and she could barely make out the words when his lips found the curve of her neck, making Emma gasp as soon as they’d walked their back towards her room. “I wanted to come home to you.”   
  
Emma buried her face against his shoulder blade and it didn’t really matter, he could probably still see the smile on her face. She collapsed against her not-quite-comfortable mattress and could barely make out the sound of Killian’s shoes hitting the floor, one hand trying to tug his tie off without actually strangling himself as well.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Emma laughed, pulling his hands away to pull the knot apart before working her way down the line of buttons.

“I could have done that. Probably.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s the probably that worries me. What are you running on, like, six hours of sleep?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
Emma sighed, brushing the hair away from his forehead and he closed his eyes lightly. He looked like he was finally starting to breathe again, falling back towards _his_ side of the bed and she hadn’t even tried to take his belt off.

“Go to sleep, Jones,” she muttered, tugging another blanket up over them.

Killian grumbled slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes either, pulling Emma against his side and kissing the top of her head again. She tugged her legs up, pushing one foot in between Killian’s and resting her hand flat against him, careful to make sure she didn’t land on the bruise she’d ask about at a slightly more appropriate time.

“I love you too,” Emma added, whispering the words against his collarbone and she knew she didn’t imagine the smile on his face.

And she didn’t remember falling asleep, just that she did, Killian warm and _there_ and neither one of them looked at the headlines, just ate leftover pancakes and walked back into the Garden together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's speech was not planned at all, but I sat down and wrote it and I was like...yeah, a'ight. That works. Everyone is here to defend Killian Jones and Emma Swan and everyone can also apparently pick locks. That being said, the series comes back to New York on Wednesday and the Rangers can, still, clinch. 
> 
> As always, I can't say how much the response to this story has meant to me. It's so many words and with only a week left in updates, I'm both sad and excited for you guys to see how it all wraps up. @laurenorder made this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	43. Chapter 43

“Sign this,” Emma said, pushing a pair of gloves at him.

Push was generous. She threw them, letting them land in on his legs and he hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. If he didn’t get out of bed, then he wouldn't have to actually put words to whatever was happening in the pit of his stomach.

Nerves.

Killian was nervous. Again.

Because they could win. Again. On Garden ice.

At least he’d slept the night before – and the last two nights since he’d shown up in Emma’s apartment and used the word _home_ several times and neither one of them had talked about _that_ yet. She’d just pressed a key in his hand before they brought an absurd amount of promotional signage back to the Garden, ducking her eyes and muttering _so you don’t have to give me a heart attack the next time you come back_ _home in the middle of the night_.

He’d kissed her.

And then fell asleep in her bed later that night. Theirs? They’d have to talk about that eventually.

They should win a Cup first.

Killian glanced up, mouth half open to demand _a pen, if I’m going to sign them, Swan_ , but the words got caught in his mouth, eyes going wide and breath rushing out of his lungs and he’d lost his train of thought completely.

Emma grinned at him, crossing her arms lightly over the jersey she was wearing – his jersey _again_ , it was always his jersey and maybe always would be his jersey and they really needed to start making schedules for these conversations. He had a lot of points he wanted to make. If he could ever remember to how to talk.

“Something wrong, Cap?” Emma asked, eyes bright as she shook her hair back over her shoulders. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, rocking back on her heels and he’d been so caught up in the look on her face and his number plastered across her back that he’d barely even registered everything else.

Or, rather, a distinct lack of anything else.

She was all long legs and oversized jersey and that smile still plastered on her face and he had to swallow once before he started actually shouting everything he was thinking. She could probably tell anyway.  

Killian shifted slightly, blankets just a bit more troublesome than they’d been a few minutes before as he tried to sit up straight. “That’s playing dirty, Swan,” he accused, tossing the gloves over the side of the bed.

“Hey,” she shouted, rolling her eyes at his complete disregard for what was, probably, game-worn merchandise. “Come on, I need that.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t care.”

He moved before she did, leaning across the bed and the blankets to wrap his fingers around her forearm and tug her closer to him, appreciating the soft sound of surprise that came with her movement. The pillows shook when Emma landed next to him and Killian swore he could _feel_ her laughter everywhere, inching through every single muscle until it seemed to smother the recently resurgent batch of nerves that had settled in his stomach.

“I really need you to sign that,” Emma mumbled, voice muffled by the pillows and his lips and her hand found the top of his shorts much quicker than he expected.

Killian jerked back when her fingers moved again and everything felt a bit hazy – that was probably because he couldn't remember the last time he’d taken a deep breath.

“Like, you know, soon,” she continued, but the demand lost a bit of its edge when her tongue traced along his bottom lip and one of them made some kind of ridiculous noise when Killian’s hand moved under her jersey.

“I’ll sign the gloves eventually, Swan,” Killian promised and his fingers trailed along the inside of her thighs, pushing her shoulder into the mattress with his own.

“Eventually?”  
  
“I’m a bit preoccupied now, you see.”  
  
“You have to get downtown.”  
  
“So do you.”  
  
Emma sighed, but there was still the ghost of a smile on her face when he pulled back to stare at her speculatively. “Where’d you get this one?” Killian asked softly, tugging on the bottom of the jersey and they’d never actually gotten around to taking off clothes.

“The jersey?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, dragging his mouth against her neck and maybe they should take off the jersey because it was getting in the way of the rest of her and the half a plan to kiss every single inch of skin before they even considered getting out of bed.

Their bed.

It was absolutely their bed.

They should buy a new mattress. And he should tell her every single plan he’d come up with after they won a Cup.

They were going to win the goddamn Stanley Cup that night. He knew it.

“Yes, Swan,” he muttered, palm flat against her side and she jumped slightly at the contact. It left her hips hitting his and Killian squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to remember how to properly put words into sentences. “This one.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes slightly, rolling her shoulders and his gaze caught sight of the patch he absolutely hadn’t noticed either. He had, apparently, lost all ability to reason as soon as she showed up next to the bed.

“I…”

Her voice trailed off and her teeth were back on her lip and that wasn’t doing anything to whatever tenuous grip Killian had on his control. He was half half a moment from ripping the damn jersey in half.

“The jersey, love,” he said, tapping one finger on the Finals patch just underneath her shoulder. “Looks decidedly new.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Well, not in the way you’re thinking.”  
  
“And, what exactly, do you think I’m thinking?” he asked, hand inching higher and she closed her eyes again.

“What was that you were saying before? Playing dirty. Pot meet kettle or whatever.”  
  
“Don’t start cliché-ing while I’m doing this, Swan.”  
  
“So many rules.”  
  
Killian laughed softly and Emma made a face, pushing the hand that wasn’t otherwise occupied into his hair and pulling his mouth back towards hers. He groaned again, trying to move enough that the absurd amount of clothing they were, somehow, still wearing found its way to the floor with the game-worn gloves.

He moved slower than he wanted, determined to take his time when he absolutely didn’t have any and they both should have been dressed and out of bed and he absolutely did not care. Emma moved again, fingers still entrenched in his hair and he could feel her heels pressed into the back of his calves.

There was a bruise there.

There were bruises everywhere. His back was still purple.

He hissed when her hands found the spot on his hip that had hit the boards particularly hard two days ago and Emma’s eyes widened. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said quickly and he couldn’t really brush her off with one hand in between her legs.

“Add that to the rules too, no more apologizing” Killian mumbled, dragging his teeth behind her ear and Emma’s breath hitched.

“You can’t do that,” Emma argued. He barely heard her – her hand, _finally_ , moving under the waistband of the team-provided shorts he was wearing as she pushed down on fabric. “And are you bruised everywhere?”

The jersey was halfway up her body now, twisted up underneath Killian’s stomach. “Probably,” he answered, before he realized they were having two different conversations at once. “Wait, what? God, Swan, you’ve got to take this jersey off.”  
  
“The beard,” she explained, tapping on his jaw for emphasis. “You’re going to scratch my neck to hell.”

Killian laughed, his breath leaving goosebumps on the skin he’d been so intent on kissing and Emma _wriggled_ underneath him. That wasn’t exactly disproving his point that she was playing dirty.

She smiled at him, tongue pressed into the corner of her lips with her eyebrows raised like she was waiting for him to do something. He was frozen. He couldn’t move. He’d forgotten about the jersey completely.

“What?” Emma asked, the concern in her voice obvious as she tried to pull the jersey back down over her exposed stomach.  
He shook his head once, smile inching across his face and then he kissed her again – heady and desperate and a mix of tongue and teeth and the want he’d felt in every inch of him as soon as she walked into the Garden.

They were going to be late. He had walk-through and film and he still needed to sign the goddamn gloves and there were more promotional signs piled in the back corner of Emma’s office that promised pre-game events and pre-game auctions and he didn’t care about any of it.

He cared about her and that noise she kept making whenever he moved his hips, his shorts still hanging off his left ankle underneath the blankets that were only just clinging to their spot on the mattress.

They both made a noise when they moved a very particular way and Killian might have briefly considered the idea of just kissing her for the rest of his life.

To hell with Game Six.

“Killian, you’ve got to move,” Emma muttered. He did and she did and time seemed to stop for a few moments – which was good since they didn’t have much to begin with anyway.

He still couldn’t breathe even after he’d fallen back to his side of the bed and tugged Emma to his side and his hand wouldn’t stop moving. It kept tracing across his name and his number and one of their phones was ringing.

Neither one of them moved.

“I bought it,” Emma said softly and Killian hummed in the back of his throat, glancing down at her when she propped her head up on her hand.

“What?”  
  
“I bought it. The jersey.”  
  
“You bought my jersey, Swan? You didn’t have to do that.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling and he’d never bothered pulling his shorts back up. “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” she continued. “The gloves and the jersey...where are the gloves by the way?”

Killian shrugged, eyebrows pulled low at the movement – his back would probably hurt for the rest of his life. They kept hitting him. Hard. “Probably somewhere underneath the bed at this point, honestly.”  
  
“Shit,” Emma sighed, leaning over him to pull at half-discarded blankets and, apparently, his shorts and that wasn’t helping either one of them actually get out of bed and back on schedule.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, wrapping his arm around her waist and she glared at him when he pulled her back up. “The jersey, love.”  
  
“You have to sign those gloves.”  
  
“I will sign the gloves, explain the jersey. And you can’t just lay across me like that.”

Her eyes got _brighter_ and it was the most ridiculous thing he’d thought in his entire life, but then he remembered he was trying to win a Stanley Cup for _her_ and he had every intention of putting a Conn-Smythe in the kitchen and, well, maybe this was just _him_ now.

“What’s the matter, Jones,” Emma laughed. “Can’t handle it?”

“Obviously not.”  
  
“We’re very late.”  
  
“I still have to shower.”  
  
“None of this was on the to-do-list.”  
  
His chest shook when he laughed, Emma’s hand resting across his stomach. “I’m almost glad it wasn’t,” Killian said. “Come on, Swan, you’re stalling. Where’d you buy the jersey?”  
  
She scrunched her nose, tapping out a rhythm with her fingers and her wrist looked decidedly bare without her laces there. He should fix that. “From the auction,” she mumbled. “Mer’s probably going to kill me because this was supposed to be one of the bigger things, but, well, I wanted it and I bought it, so it’s not like GD’s not getting its money.”  
  
At some point, he was convinced, Emma Swan would stop amazing him. Maybe. Probably not.

It didn’t really matter.

He kind of hoped it wouldn't ever happen.

“We’re going to win tonight,” Killian said and it wasn’t the list of _plans_ he had in the back of his head, but Emma’s smile widened.

“I know you are.” She kissed him again, tugging on his lip with just enough force that he felt himself chasing after her as soon as she moved. She laughed softly when her feet hit the floor, pulling on the bottom of the jersey again. “Go shower.”

Killian smirked, pushing the rest of the blankets away from him and appreciating the way her mouth opened half an inch. His hands found her hips as soon as he was standing in front of her and Emma tilted her head in unspoken question.

He kissed her.

Again.

For several more unscheduled minutes. And around the doorframe and into the bathroom and the shower and they were nearly half an hour late.

Arthur glared at him when he did his best to sneak into the back corner of the film room and the entire goddamn roster probably noticed, Will’s laughter at Killian’s sudden appearance in their row some kind of flashing neon sign at his arrival.

“We going to have to start fundraising to pay for your fines too, Cap?” Will muttered when Killian sank into the seat next to him. “I don’t know if we’ve got enough, between you and Arthur.”  
  
“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian mumbled, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt and Arthur was, apparently, trying to glare at all of them at this point. They probably shouldn’t sit in the back row of the film room.

“Will both of you shut up,” Robin hissed, leaning around Will to stare at them like they were Roland and Henry and Killian slumped a bit farther into his seat.

Arthur kept talking about hits and getting the puck against the board and something that might have been _if you guys let Cap get hit in the back again, I’m going to murder all of you and fucking enjoy it_ , and he was half an hour late to film and Killian already wanted film to be over.

He wanted to be on the goddamn ice.

And maybe, this time, _he’d_ hit something.

“Are you even listening?” Arthur snapped and Robin elbowed him in the side. That was bruised too.

“Jeez, Locksley,” Killian groaned. “Wait until I’m dressed before you start trying to kill me.”  
  
Will’s whole head fell back when he started laughing again and Arthur had given up on even trying to yell anymore. He threw the remote at them. “You been particularly undressed today, Cap?” Will asked, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

Killian ran his hand over his face and maybe he’d just start hitting his teammates. Or ignore whatever post-game celebration he knew Ariel had half-planned if they managed to actually pull this off in a few hours.

Maybe he’d just find Emma and start kissing her again before puck drop.

* * *

“Ah, no, I figured you’d do that,” Merida said, leaning up against the doorframe in Emma’s office and eyeing her with a very specific look.

“What?” Emma asked. She groaned slightly when she snapped her head up and Merida just raised her eyebrows, smile tugging on the ends of her mouth as she crossed her arms lightly and pushed the toe of her shoe into the absurdly blue carpet of the hallway.

“As soon as we put that jersey on there, I knew you were going to take it.”  
  
“I bought it!”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Jeez, Mer, you think I’m just stealing merch from GD auctions?””  
  
Merida shrugged, smile full-blown now and her phone buzzed in her hand – probably Aurora demanding the merch that was sitting in a pile a few feet away and Emma had managed to get the gloves signed, but only after they ran out of hot water and Ruby had practically cackled at her when she walked into the Garden half an hour after she was supposed to.

“You tell me, boss,” she said, taking a step into the office at the same time Emma’s desk phone went off.

Emma made a face, bordering dangerously close to sensory overload with the absurd amount of phones making noise in her general vicinity. “I just did. Actually.”

“Yeah, well, I knew you were going to take it. Even if you bought it like you were supposed to. You should answer Ruby, she probably wants to give you the videos from media to send out.”  
  
“They’re not doing media yet,” Emma said before she could stop herself and Merida made some kind of impossibly judgemental noise.

“You’re not doing yourself any rumor-type favors, boss.”  
  
Emma tugged on her hair, trying not to actually slide off the chair as she continued to ignore the multitude of ringing phones and, as if on cue, heard the telltale sound of heels coming down the hallway.

“Brace yourself,” Merida warned, glancing over her shoulder before Ruby could march into the office with something that might have actually been a sneer on her face.

The heels seemed to echo off the walls and that didn’t make any sense because there was carpet on the floor and Ruby seemed to pick up more speed as soon as she brushed past Merida.

“You look like you’re on a mission, Rubes,” Emma said, doing her best to keep her voice light and it didn’t work at all.

Her phone – _phones_ , God – were still ringing.

“Is he living with you?” Ruby asked, not even bothering to mince words and they better win tonight if only because Emma was half certain the whole Garden would implode if they had to deal with a Game Seven.

Merida sounded like she was choking. Or maybe just collapsing against the doorframe.

“Who told you that?” Emma muttered and it wasn’t the answer it probably should have been. She didn’t have the answer she probably should have.

Were they?

Kind of?  
  
She’d given him a key with some excuse about not terrifying her when he came _home_ in the middle of the night during the season and the season was almost over. She absolutely meant next season and indefinitely and Emma should probably mention that too.

After they won. Tonight. When they got back home.

Together.

Ruby made a noise, fingers a blur across her phone screen. “The same people who think he’s going to propose on the ice later on tonight.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma sighed and Merida muttered _sorry_ under her breath. “Don’t you have a job to do? Media’s in an hour.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I work here too.”  
  
“Working on Cap more likely.”  
  
“Jeez, what the fuck, Ruby?”  
  
Ruby didn’t look even remotely apologetic, smile just a bit more predatory than it probably should have been a few hours before puck drop. “Don’t you have a job to do,” she challenged. “Maybe a few phones to answer? Get you back on schedule, or something.”

“Witch,” Emma muttered, but her desk phone was still ringing and she was, somehow, still a half an hour behind schedule.

She couldn’t think straight. The word _distraction_ flitted through her mind and that wasn’t really right either – it wasn’t quite enough.

They were definitely living together.

“I think you’re blushing,” Ruby laughed, taking another step towards her and her eyes widened slightly when her gaze landed on Emma’s neck. “And I think you should consider keeping your hair over your shoulders when David gets here.”  
  
Emma didn’t bother responding, just grabbed the phone on her desk and ignored the buzzing cellphone a few inches away, well aware it was a near-constant stream of updates from David who was on his way to the Garden in another team provided car with Mary Margaret.

And maybe Ruby was right.

“Ms. Swan,” the voice on the other end of the phone said and Emma blinked, waving her hand at Ruby when she refused to stop laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Emma said quickly and it was all she could do to tug her hair back over her shoulder and try to push memories of the morning into the back corner of her mind. Later. Tonight. After they won a Cup.

“There’s a whole group of people down here. Say you’ve got tickets for them.”

She resisted giving voice to the groan in the back of her throat, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling instead and she didn’t have the tickets – will-call had the tickets, that was why it was will-call and will-call shouldn’t be calling when they were in charge of this.

“So….give them the tickets?”

“They’re under your name, Ms. Swan. I can’t give them the tickets until you’re down here.”

Oh. Maybe her phone wasn’t just David’s stream of Rangers-based consciousness. Ruby looked a bit wary at whatever was happening with Emma’s face as she tapped her nails over the back of her wrist in frustration.

“Of course not,” Emma mumbled. “Alright, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Yup.”

Emma slammed the phone back into its holder and Ruby whistled as soon as she pushed out of her chair and marched around the front of her desk. “Hair over your shoulder, Em,” she said softly, tugging on the side of her blazer for good measure. “Can’t scare away the in-laws before you even get them tickets.”  
  
Her mouth fell open and she’d lost complete control of the day. God, they better win.

“How could you possibly know that?” Emma asked, some of the tension falling off her as soon as Ruby looked at her. Merida chuckled.

“We’ve been over this. I know everything.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Aside from the fact that I just walked by the entire Vankald-Jones clan on my way up here?”  
  
“Yeah, aside from that.”  
  
“David told me. He’s trying to work out some of his pre-game anxiety by texting every single person in his contacts.”

Emma rolled her eyes again – there was a crack in the ceiling that she should probably get someone to fix – and she couldn’t quite completely mask the look of frustration and her own pre-game anxiety as her phone buzzed again.

“It’s going to work this time, boss,” Merida said.

“They can’t get shut out at the Garden,” Ruby reasoned and she hadn’t moved her hand away from Emma’s shoulder yet. “They’ve been ridiculous here.”

Emma scoffed. “I don’t know if the guys would appreciate _ridiculous_ as some sort of game-defining term.”  
  
“That’s a compliment!”  
  
“You want them to use that during media?”  
  
“Whatever,” Ruby mumbled. “Go tell your new in-laws that you and the captain of the New York Rangers are totally living together.”

It took her four minutes to sprint down the stairs from her office to Chase Square and if she were being honest with herself, Emma probably should have been down there already – supervising Rangerstown and the auction and that was probably why Merida had come upstairs anyway. She’d never actually bothered asking.

She’d just shown up half an hour late with the ends of her hair still a bit damp after her second shower of the morning and sprinted into her office to make sure there weren’t any pre-game stories.

There weren’t.

Small miracles or something.

“Emma,” a voice shouted and she had half a moment to see a blur of red hair and the C on her shoulder before she felt Anna collide with her body with enough force that she was half certain she’d be bruised as well.

“Hey,” Emma breathed. “Sorry they couldn’t give you the tickets, I just figured they’d see the Jones jerseys and it’d be fine.”  
  
“How come you’re not in a jersey?” Anna pulled back slightly, eyebrows pulled low as she examined Emma’s blazer and blue dress and she did her best not to blush. Again. This was ridiculous. There was a game to play.

“God, stop screaming at her Anna,” Elsa said softly, throwing an apologetic glance Emma’s way. “She can’t wear the jersey to work.”  
  
Anna’s shoulders sagged and she stuck her lower lip out slightly. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I guess that makes sense.”

They were an army of Jones jerseys, Emma thought, taking a look at all of them – a sea of blue and the number 20 and Stanley Cup Finals patches. God, they’d all bought brand-new jerseys. “You guys look great,” Emma said honestly, smiling widely and Mrs. Vankald looked like she was already on the verge of tears.

“I can’t believe we actually made it,” Liam admitted, muttering towards the twins who’d already started racing towards the Rangerstown booths a few feet away as he shifted a tiny, blue bundle in the crook of his elbow.

Oh. She’d kind of forgotten about that.

It had only been half a plan – a text message sent to Elsa just after Emma had given Killian the key and they’d taken the downtown one together like some kind of collective, domestic unit and she hoped it would work.

Elsa made sure it had.

She’d promised they’d _figure it out_ and Emma was half convinced Elsa Vankald-Jones was the superhero Killian claimed she was because she got three kids in a car and got Anna tickets and, somehow, managed to get a several-weeks old newborn from Colorado to Chase Square in front of Madison Square Garden.

“We finally got her to fall asleep somewhere between the Holland Tunnel and here,” Liam explained, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“It’s some kind of Game Six miracle,” Emma added, smiling at Elsa and glancing down to her wrist quickly.

There still weren’t any laces there.

Emma bit her lip tightly and leaned forward slowly, staring at Lizzie Jones like she’d never seen a baby before in her life.

“I’m so glad you guys are here,” Emma whispered, blinking quickly and maybe she and Mrs. Vankald should be quarantined to some corner of the team suite where they could both work out whatever mess of emotions they both seemed to be dealing with.

And it didn’t seem quite fair that Emma met Lizzie before Killian did.

“Us too,” Liam said. “They’re totally going to win here.”  
  
Emma hummed, not taking her eyes away from the somehow-still-sleeping baby and she could hear Anna corralling the twins again. “I know they are,” she said.

“He’s got good stats here in clinching games,” Liam continued and Emma didn’t care about any of that. “You know he’s scored twelve times in clinching games at home?”  
  
“I did not.”

“He’s been looking up stats since whatever happened at the Staples Center,” Anna mumbled, eyes widening meaningfully. “Like KJ’s not just going to will the whole goddamn team to a victory tonight.”  
  
Emma laughed, but she couldn’t bring herself to disagree either. Liam grumbled slightly, careful to keep his voice soft so as not to actual wake up Lizzie and maybe the baby was the superhero, managing to sleep through the entire event two hours before puck drop. There were tiny headphones sticking out of the bag slung over Liam’s shoulder.

The twins were still shouting, Anna not quite able to contend with both of them at the same time and Emma bit her lip tightly at the scene in front of her.

“You know,” she said, taking a few steps forward and crouching down next to Anna until she was level with the pair. “There’s a virtual reality thing over there where you guys can actually save shots on net.”  
  
They both started shouting before the words were almost entirely out of her mouth, one of them jumping up and down while the other tried to actually drag Anna towards the booth.

“Alright, you terrors,” Liam muttered, shifting Lizzie into Elsa’s expectant arms. “Let’s go make some saves and after the game you can tell Jeff how much better you are than him. Uncle Killian will appreciate that.”

He was gone a moment later, Mr. and Mrs. Vankald half a step behind with their phones out and Elsa shook her head slowly as half a dozen Jones jerseys walked away from them.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly and a bit louder than than any of the ridiculously loud noises around them. Emma jerked her head back, glancing to her right where Elsa was standing, staring at her like she’d only recently realized who she was.

“What?” Emma sputtered. Her phone was _ringing_ now. David and Mary Margaret were there.

“Thank you,” Elsa said again. “For getting us here.”  
  
“You got them in the car, El. That was the majority of the work. The team suite is huge, it’s not a huge deal.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely what I’m talking about.”  
  
Emma blinked once, turning slightly until she was staring straight at Elsa and she looked as exhausted as she probably should have, but she also looked a bit like Mary Margaret did whenever Killian slung his arm around Emma’s shoulders or kissed the top of her head in the restaurant after a game.

“I’m very confused,” Emma admitted.

“I told you at Christmas, this season was different. And I thought I knew then, but it’s been...so much more than that. You’ve been so much more than that.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
Elsa nodded slowly, humming softly when Lizzie started to stir. “And then some. He is...I’ve never seen KJ this happy. Ever.” Emma didn’t know what to say, every word she’d ever learned forgotten in the middle of her own event and Elsa just kept smiling at her. “You look happy too,” she added, muttering the words until Emma was certain they were practically hanging in the air.

“I am,” Emma said quickly and easily and, well, it wasn’t quite as unexpected an answer as it would have been a few months before. “We are.”

“He really doesn’t know we’re here?”  
  
“No,” Emma said, shaking her head.  
  
“They’re totally going to win. Even without Liam’s stats, which he wouldn't shut up about by the way. The entire drive, finding new numbers and facts no one’s ever tried to look up before. I’m surprised he hasn’t just been texting you constant updates.”  
  
“It's probably good he hasn't. Something about distracted driving, right?” Emma asked. “And to be fair, I’ve been kind of ignoring my phone for most of the day.”  
  
“Would you believe he actually paid for wi-fi at the hotel last night so he could keep looking up stats? He’s probably the most nervous out of all of us. Although he’d never admit it. Wait until puck drop, he won’t sit down once.”  
  
“Well, that makes two of us,” Emma admitted.

Elsa nodded slowly, lips tilting up in understanding. “They’re going to win,” she said again. “And there weren’t any stories today. A said they probably wouldn’t ask at media either.”  
  
“Ruby would kill the lot of them right there in the locker room if any of them did,” Emma muttered. “She’s been on a warpath the last couple of days. She pulled that guy’s credentials for the New York games.”  
  
“Remind me to thank her later.”  
  
“We can go in on some sort of edible arrangement together.”  
  
“Deal.”

“Did you check for stories?” Emma asked, mumbling the words together as she tried to bore a hole in the ground.

Elsa made a noise that might have been agreement. “Every morning since this started. We should probably get Arthur something too.”  
  
“They paid his fine.”  
  
“That one _was_ a story.”  
  
“Of course it was,” Emma laughed. “Ruby wouldn’t miss a headline like that.”  
  
Elsa grinned at her and Lizzie was awake now, mumbling as much as a baby could actually mumble and Emma’s heart might have actually exploded in her chest. “I’m glad we’re here too,” Elsa said.

* * *

The locker room was packed, phones and recorders shoved in their faces while they sat in front of their respective lockers and Killian tried not to groan when he had to re-lace his skates again – it was difficult to do that while talking and answering questions and, well, maybe he was a bit distracted, gaze darting around the locker room for blonde hair and green eyes and a jersey he knew was still sitting in a heap just outside the bathroom door.

“She’s not here,” Ariel said, dropping down next to him on the bench in front of his locker with a soft huff. “Make a fist, Cap.”  
  
Killian shot her a look, rolling his eyes and someone a few feet away asked him another question about _how excited he was_ , like he could be anything but. He ignored them.

“What?” he asked Ariel, trying to brush her away when she just grabbed his wrist and pushed her thumb into the back of the back of his hand.

“A fist,” she repeated and her grip tightened when he tried to pull his hand away.

“Red, I can’t do that if you’re trying to cut off the blood flow to my fingers.”  
  
“You’re a doctor now, then?”  
  
“Let go of my hand.”

She did, grumbling under her breath slightly as she crossed her arms over her bright blue polo and Killian heard Will laughing a few feet away again. “God,” Ariel muttered, tilting her head to the side when he started to clench his fingers together. “Scarlet is the absolute worst isn’t he?”  
  
“He doesn’t know how else to work out his pre-game aggression.”  
  
“If he gets a penalty in the first Arthur will kill him.” She paused, twisting her lips and something flickered in her gaze. Killian turned on her, lowering his eyebrows and she sighed dramatically when he didn’t actually ask a question. “You’re super frustrating, you know that?”  
  
“I’m just sitting here, Red.”  
  
The reporters were, mostly, gone – disappointed with Killian’s distinct lack of quotes and no one in the locker room seemed very interested in talking with just a little over an hour to puck drop. He needed to actually get his jersey on.

And maybe check his phone one more time before he got on the ice.

Ariel sighed again and Killian felt a flush of worry shoot down his spine that had him practically frozen to in front of his locker. The jersey could wait.

“What’s the matter, A?” Will asked, appearing suddenly next to them with Robin just a few feet behind and Ariel twisted her fingers together. Killian pulled her hands apart slowly, eyeing her as she rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath.

“Talk, Red,” he said and it sounded a bit like a command.

She let out a shaky laugh and none of them moved. “Aye, aye, Cap,” Ariel muttered. She didn’t pull her hands away from Killian’s. “We’re, uh, we’re moving.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Out of the city?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
Ariel shook her head, eyes trained on her shoes and Will sank onto her other side, arm flung around her shoulders when her breathing started to pick up. “A different team, A?” he asked softly and Killian’s stomach clenched, dimly aware of someone moving in the doorway.

“What?” Ariel asked sharply and Will glared at the tone in her voice. “No, of course not!”  
  
She yanked her hands back, dragging her knuckles underneath her eyes and practically jumping off the bench to turn on all three of them with a look that probably could have started several small fires.

Or melted the ice in the Garden.

“What is happening right now?” Killian mumbled, glancing at a stricken Robin and Will. They shrugged. And there was still someone standing in the doorway.

Ariel groaned loudly, rolling her whole head back as she stomped one of her feet on the carpet. “God, you idiots,” she half-shouted, but there was something on the edge of her voice that sounded a bit like happiness. “I’m pregnant!”

Killian’s mouth hung open and Will might have actually _whooped_ , smile taking up the majority of his face as he punched his fist into the air. Robin was the only one who moved, taking three quick steps towards Ariel and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

He muttered something against her hair and Ariel was crying, tears falling down her cheeks quicker than she could wipe them away.

“We’re buying a house,” she continued, pulling out of Robin’s grip and Killian still hadn’t moved away from his locker. “That’s what I was talking about. They’ll have to push me out of the Garden to get me away from this team.”  
  
Killian shook his head slowly, smiling pulling on his mouth as Ariel glanced at him cautiously. “Why all the cloak and dagger, Red?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she shrugged. “At least not until after we won. But well….”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m happy,” Ariel said simply. “And you were half an hour late this morning, so I know you’re happy too and…” She shrugged again. “This is good. I wanted you to know.”  
  
He was on his feet before he realized he’d even bent his knees, standing up and pulling Ariel against him, her forehead pressed against his heavily bruised shoulder. “Why is everyone on this team so concerned with what time I got to the Garden today?” Killian asked and he could feel Ariel laugh, burrowing her head against his neck.

“You’re happy, Cap,” she answered and he couldn’t bring himself to argue.

“And you said after we win.”  
  
“We’re going to.”  
  
“There weren’t any stories today either, Cap,” Robin added, clapping him on the shoulder. Killian twisted back, arm still wrapped around Ariel and he laughed in the kind of disbelief he probably shouldn’t have had.

He’d almost walked away from all of this.

And it still surprised him how happy he was.

“He was totally checking for stories before you got to film,” Will laughed, moving his eyebrows quickly and Robin sighed dramatically, as if serving as some kind of de facto _team dad_ was particularly trying at the moment.

“How often are you looking for stories, Locksley?” Killian asked and he was half certain he already knew the answer.

“Every day since this started. Gina looks at night. I look in the morning. Sometimes we swap which one of us looks at New York and which one of us looks at Los Angeles. She’s in charge of threatening editors, though.”  
  
“You’d get fined otherwise.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we’ve got another kid to feed now, so…”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, running a hand through his hair and Mulan was already taking pictures of them, the shutter sounding louder than it should have been in the suddenly empty locker room. “Lucas put you up to this?” Killian asked and Mulan didn’t answer, just kept taking pictures that would get sent to season-tickets if they won.

When they won.

“Ruby’s been with Emma all day,” Ariel said and Killian’s eyes widened immediately. “They were running Rangerstown stuff when I went outside to get some air.”  
  
“You need air, Red?”

“Morning sickness is a lie they tell you to make it seem like any of this is going to be easy.” He pulled her against his side again, kissing the top of her hair and ignoring another demand to _make a fist, just one more time, before you guys have to get on the ice_.

“Where are they sitting?” Killian asked instead, glancing towards Robin and he didn’t really need to be any more specific.

Robin looked like they’d already won. “By the boards. Henry and Rol practiced cheers the entire ride down here.”  
  
“There are signs,” Will added, his own smile on his face.

“They put you on the signs too, didn’t they?” Killian asked knowingly and Will nodded enthusiastically.

“Look who’s gunning for top non-Locksley favorite now, Cap.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“Whatever, I’ll be A’s kid’s favorite.”  
  
Ariel scoffed. “Please,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly as she grabbed Killian’s hand and started examining another bruise in between his thumb and pointer finger. “Cap’s totally going to be their favorite and you know it.”  
  
“See, that’s just mean for no reason at all, A.”  
  
Robin rolled his eyes, shrugging into his jersey and the noise from the ice was starting make its way down the hallway – pre-game music and probably Arthur already pacing along the bench and pucks hitting up against the boards and Killian’s stomach was in his throat.

It wasn’t because of the game.

Fuck, if he wasn’t the happiest person in the entire goddamn world. Lucky bastard. He wished El and Liam were there.

“Here,” Robin said pointedly, pushing an unopened bottle of Gatorade at Killian.

“What am I doing with this?”  
  
“Well, no jinx, or whatever, but we should acknowledge this moment or something, right? I’d say we should steal the champagne, but A’s pregnant and she knows how to break bones so….”  
  
“I don’t know how to break bones,” Ariel argued, pulling the bottle of Robin’s hands before Killian could and throwing the top over her shoulder. “Just make sure they don’t rebreak once you guys have ruined them.”  
  
“Semantics. And this is better than whatever champagne we got in Vancouver.”  
  
Ariel clicked her tongue. “We did that for your own good. Only so many options in the middle of the night.”  
  
“Yeah, well, only so many options in the middle of the locker room or something,” Robin argued and they were going to spill all the Gatorade on the floor before they even got around to whatever it was they were doing. “Anyway, to...us.”  
  
“Us?” Killian repeated skeptically and Robin shrugged. Ariel was crying again.

“I like it,” Will said, taking a swig of Gatorade that was far more than his allotted quarter of the bottle. “Straight to the point, Dad.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly, the force of it making his shoulders shake, and Robin looked slightly affronted. “He just called you dad!”  
  
“I have ears, Cap,” Robin muttered. “Whatever, I take my toast back. You guys are all assholes.”  
  
“And you looked up stories to make sure I wasn’t getting distracted.”  
  
“Yeah, so what?” Robin challenged. Ariel was probably going to cry until the final buzzer went off. Mulan was still taking pictures.

“Thank you,” Killian said, trying to put years of _everything_ into a couple of letters. Robin’s lips tilted up and his chest heaved when he took a deep breath, visible even under the brand-new jersey he had on.

“I should have thought of a cliché about team for a moment like this.”  
  
“No I in team,” Will muttered. “Or _us_ since Dad was getting all sentimental with his toast. Either way it works. I’m totally going to tell Mrs. V. I’ll be _her_ favorite.”

“That seems fair,” Robin admitted, holding his hand out to Killian and he took it without a second thought. “Let’s go win a Cup.”  
  
It was loud when they got on the ice – seats packed even for warmups and Killian swore he could _feel_ the _Let’s go Rangers_ chants echoing in his head, settling in his center and he’d never been more ready for anything in his entire life.

The anthem took forever, stretching out somewhere closer to never-ending and he could feel the camera focusing on him, shifting back and forth on his skates as he tapped his stick impatiently. Will laughed quietly behind him, muttering something under his breath that sounded a bit like _relax, Cap_. He didn’t stop.

“What do you say, Cap,” Will said, moving towards center ice and the opening faceoff and Game Six and the entire goddamn Garden was shaking, he was convinced. “One more round of the bet?”  
  
He grinned, skidding to a stop next to a Kings player that stared at him like he’d spent the better part of the last forty-eight hours coming up with half a dozen different ways to get him against the boards, nodding towards Will. “Name your stakes,” Killian answered.

Will shrugged – as if he hadn’t planned the whole thing hours before. “Let me be A’s kid’s favorite.”  
  
“You want to bet favoritism on an unborn baby?”  
  
“Don’t tell A, then.”  
  
“You’re insane, you know that?”

Another shrug and there was a whistle and a hockey game to be played. “Sell your apartment then. That less weird?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian said, but it wasn’t actually the disagreement it probably should have been. And maybe while Robin and Regina had been checking for stories and distractions, he’d spent several hours looking at real estate listings on his phone.

Will didn’t know that.  
  
The Kings player hit him as soon as the ref dropped the puck, shoulder colliding into Killian’s and he grunted when he felt the hit through his pads, a stick knocking against his decidedly un-covered ankle. “Fuck,” he mumbled, turning on his skates and trying to get away from a freakishly strong winger who knew how to check very well just a few minutes into a Finals-clinching game.

His back would never recover.

“Hit him back, Cap,” Phillip shouted late in the first period, skating around him when Killian found himself, once again, pinned against the boards with a stick hitting against the back of his calves and each one of these goddamn referees appeared to have forgotten the definition of a slash. His wrist was bleeding underneath his glove.

Killian grumbled when another Kings player collided with his back, half convinced the entire Los Angeles roster was trying to get the puck out of the corner.

He twisted his stick again – could dimly make out Will’s string of curses a few feet away from him as he pushed into the melee and Arthur would kill them both if they turned the puck over in the defensive zone. Or got a penalty.

Either or.

There were only a few minutes left in the first and it hadn’t been a perfect start, but they hadn’t drawn a penalty yet and he hadn’t actually given into whatever game plan the Kings seemed to be staging – a never-ending supply of insults and hits and they wanted him to fight.

They wanted him off the ice.

They’d have to drag him off the fucking ice.

Killian stabbed his stick forward again and he heard the puck shift, kicking at it with the side of his skate for good measure and his legs were on fire, or possibly made of jello and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed for a shift.

It didn’t matter.

“Go,” Phillip shouted, nodding up the ice as he elbowed an oncoming Kings winger. Killian gritted his teeth when he moved, but there were only a few minutes left and someone needed to score. He turned again, leaving a small pile of ice-snow in his wake and Los Angeles was already in the middle of a change.

There was a lot of open ice in front of him.

Phillip knocked the puck back behind him and Killian was moving as soon as he heard it hit Will’s stick, ignoring the pain that shot up his legs and settled into the base of his spine and he was behind the defense in a few strides and _shit_ Will was never going to let him live that pass down.

It was a good pass – right to his stick and in between defenders and he could only marvel at what a complete shit time it was for Los Angeles to change.

He was wide open.

The cheers were still echoing in his head, puck pushed out in front of him and legs somewhere close to just dissolving at this point and Killian didn’t slow down.

Forehand. Backhand. The goalie was already out of the crease and there was a sliver of space to his right – it went right under his outstretched glove.

The light went off.

He scored.

They were winning.

And everything seemed to slow, Killian slamming his back into the boards when he spun out and that didn’t even hurt. He might have yelled or maybe screamed, his own voice sounding like an echo when all of New York City seemed to erupt in the stands around him.

He must have made some kind of ridiculous celebratory move though, bending his knees and clenching his fists and Will was already laughing when he crashed into him.

“Did you see that pass, Cap?” Will shouted. “Twenty points at least!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Killian argued. “I scored. Give me fifteen points for that juke. I’m totally beating you.”

“Nah, nah, ten points for the juke. At most.”  
  
“Are you two serious?” Robin asked and the horn was still going off. The crowd sang through the goal song twice. “We are in the middle of a fucking hockey game.”

“If Cap loses he’s going to sell his apartment.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
“I never agreed to that,” Killian said, slinging his legs over the boards and Arthur glared at all three of them.

Will groaned, disappointment on his face clear through his visor and the set of his shoulders when they, eventually, walked back to the locker room. “That’s stupid. You’d make a killing on that apartment.”  
  
“If you three want to shut up,” Arthur hissed, marching into the center of the locker room with a still-intact white board gripped tightly in his hands. “We’ve still got forty minutes of hockey to play and the Kings are trying to get Jones to fight.”  
  
“I’m not going to fight anyone Arthur,” Killian promised. “That’s Scarlet’s job anyway.”  
  
“Nuh uh, Cap,” Will argued. “I’m not doing anything to jeopardize my points standings here. I’m absolutely winning and a penalty’s just going to fuck that up. Get ready to list that apartment.”  
  
“When did you become some kind of real estate matchmaker?”  
  
Will stuck his tongue out and Robin sighed again, rolling his eyes for good measure. Arthur hit the whiteboard up against Will’s shoulder. “Enough,” he snapped. “I don’t care about any of this. No penalties, more goals, less play up against the boards. You guys look like shit there.”  
  
“Motivational as always, Arthur,” Killian laughed.

Arthur pressed his lips together tightly, eyebrows drawn low as he took two measured steps closer to Killian and his outstretched skates. “Nice shot. And I’d be less worried about Scarlet’s match-maker tendencies and more concerned with Lucas more or less announcing that you’ve got a ring stashed somewhere already.”

He didn’t say anything else, leaving Killian open-mouthed and wide-eyed with his helmet resting on his knee while Will and Robin doubled over with laughter on either side of him.

Forty more minutes of hockey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're so close to the end. I am both thrilled and a lil' sad and you guys have been so fantastic the entire time, I honestly can't thank you enough for every click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> As always @laurenorder made this better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	44. Chapter 44

Fifteen minutes.

There were fifteen minutes left in a tie game – god damn, fucking turnovers in the neutral zone and if they fucked this up, Emma was going to murder August Booth for trying to stickhandle through three Kings players and setting up a Los Angeles goal just a few minutes into the third period.

She’d probably have to get in line behind Arthur who might have actually broken his foot when he kicked at the bench. And then maybe Liam, who’d been so incensed by the mistake that Elsa had pulled the kids to the other side of the team suite and Mrs. Vankald gasped quietly when he started muttering curse words in a language that was, decidedly, not English.

He was still doing it.

Fifteen minutes left and Liam Jones was mumbling under his breath in a different language while Emma chewed on her lip and tried not to wear away at her heels while pacing a hole into the floor.

More blue carpet.

The team must have bought it in bulk.

God, she’d lost her mind completely.

She didn’t even have David to complain to about whatever it was these referees weren't doing – ignoring, at least, five different slashes and they must have all swallowed their whistles at some point in the second period when Killian had gotten high-sticked just over center ice and she couldn’t swear in a different language, but Emma was fairly proficient in English.  
  
David, however, wasn’t in the team suite. He was sitting down by the boards in the seats Emma had saved for the Locksley family and Regina had been far too happy to get out of the crowd and give up her spot and it had taken all of five seconds for him to sprint towards the elevator and down the ice and Emma couldn't stop moving.  

There was a noise from the crowd and Emma stopped pacing quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet until Liam reached out to steady her, hand wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days.

“What happened?” he snapped, glancing towards the group pressed up against the windows and Anna groaned loudly.

“If you’re going to ask questions, you’ve got to actually watch the game, Liam,” she said and, well, she kind of had a point.

“Is he bleeding again?” Emma asked, leaning around Liam to glance out towards the ice and there were less than fifteen minutes left to play now. It was still tied.

And maybe _she_ hadn’t taken a full breath in days.

“It’s fine, Emma,” Elsa answered quietly, taking pity on her as she glanced over her shoulder, one hand on Lizzie’s back. Mary Margaret shifted in her seat, halfway to standing and Emma brushed her off quickly.

“It looked bad before.”  
  
“It didn’t look like they were giving him stitches,” Mary Margaret said reasonably and Emma’s shoulders sagged as Liam’s hand moved with her. He didn’t blink when he met her gaze, muttering something else under his breath. She didn’t understand it.

“What language is that?” Emma asked, eyes darting between the ice and the older Jones in front of her. He’d started pacing again.

“It’s Norwegian,” he answered after a few more moments and another cheer from the crowd and somebody had taken a shot on the Los Angeles net.

“You can speak Norwegian?”

“Only a little.”  
  
“Only the curse words,” Elsa corrected, not taking her gaze away from the game. “He thought it intimidated other people when he played.” Anna did her best to try and turn her laughter into a cough. It didn’t really work.

“KJ does too,” Anna added as she turned on her knees in the chair to stare at Emma and Liam. They’d both started pacing again. Twelve minutes of game-time left.

“And he just finished a shift,” Regina said, fingers tapping against the glass impatiently like she were trying to will the game to move quicker. “He’s got a ridiculous amount of time on the ice. The whole first line does.”  
  
“That’s good, right?” Emma asked. She knew the answer. It _was_ good. It meant he had a better chance to score or set up a score and if they scored then they’d win and they’d sign him and she couldn't breathe all over again.

Emma shook her head quickly, twisting the skin around her wrist until it nearly hurt and Mary Margaret seemed more intent on watching her than the game. She opened her mouth to say something, probably some kind of motivational _it’s fine_ speech, but there were eleven minutes of game-time left and Emma didn’t want to hear it.

She just wanted it to happen.

She was incredibly impatient.

And Regina’s fingernails on the glass were going to drive her insane.

“They bumped August down too,” Mary Margaret said instead. “He’s skating third line now.”  
  
“That’s because Arthur can’t actually shoot lasers out of his eyes and turn him into a pile of ash on the ice.”

“That’d be interesting,” Regina mused and Emma’s laugh was shaky at best, but there were ten minutes left now and she’d moved towards the glass, staring at the bench and the shoulders she could probably recognized anywhere at this point.

He kept twisting back and forth, his grip on his stick obviously tight, even from the suite, and Emma sighed, running her hands through her hair and across her face. Liam was muttering in Norwegian again.

“William,” Mrs. Vankald said sharply and he must have said something particularly horrible. Emma bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh – and then tugged her hair back over her shoulder.

Eight and a half minutes.

“They’ve got to get set up quicker,” Regina mumbled, half talking to herself as the Rangers first line got back on the ice, dumping the puck in deep and it took all of three seconds for Los Angeles to knock it back out.

“Oh, shit, that’s icing,” Emma said and Mary Margaret was standing now too, eyes wide and palms pressed flat against the glass in front of them.

“How long has LA been out there?” Mary Margaret asked, blinking once when both Emma and Regina turned to gape at her. “What? I care now. I know the rules.”  
  
Anna laughed softly, thumping back into her chair as she mumbled _Oh, I like her_ towards Elsa and Regina had started tapping on the glass again.

“They’ve been out there for awhile,” Regina answered, tugging her lower lip in between her teeth. “Look at them, they can hardly move.”

They couldn’t – everything in a black and white skating half a step slower than it should have been while the Rangers passed the puck through the zone and they’d set up. Emma couldn’t stop moving, bobbing on the balls of her feet and chewing on the inside of her cheek and her eyes followed the puck every time they passed it, heart thudding painfully when the Kings couldn’t clear it.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” Mary Margaret murmured, groaning loudly when they didn’t do what she wanted. Anna laughed again and at some point they’d all stood up, pressed up in a line against the glass with palms flat in front of them and hearts in their throats and Emma didn’t expect Regina to ask the question she did.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“What?” Emma asked, squeezing her eyes shut at another save and another faceoff and Robin won. The Kings still couldn't get off the ice. They could hardly stand on their skates. Killian was in front of the net and they couldn’t get the puck to him. They needed to get the puck to him. They just kept passing from the side and back to the point.

“The release,” Regina said. “You wrote it, didn’t you?”

Emma gasped softly – or maybe that was Mary Margaret on her other side – and Liam had actually stopped pacing, taking a step towards them. She couldn’t bring herself to look at any of them, eyes focused on the game and Killian didn’t have a shot, even from his spot in front of the net, passing back to the point almost as soon as the puck hit his stick.

He didn’t have a shot, but he could screen the Kings goalie and, maybe, that was even better.

Phillip had the shot.

Phillip could score.

He barely waited, stick pulled back quickly and Emma could only wonder how he’d managed to get so much power on his shot.

Liam took that deep breath he probably could have used a few minutes before, hissing in the air loudly and Emma glanced back just quickly enough to see that he’d closed his eyes, lips pressed in a thin, tight line and the world certainly enjoyed its irony.

Phillip’s shot went in – a clean line through the defense that, somehow, hadn’t been tipped or blocked on its way into the far left corner of the net.

And the team suite exploded, screams and shouts and Lizzie crying and Mrs. Vankald wasn’t even trying to pretend like she wasn't just openly weeping in front of them.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut tightly, fists clenched until she was worried _she’d_ be the one who needed stitches when she cut her own palms with her nails, and Mary Margaret was trying to hug her, pulling her arms away from her side while she babbled in her ear. Regina hadn’t moved an inch, eyes cutting into Emma with an understanding that made her heartr ate speed up just a bit.

Six minutes left.

The suite quieted eventually, mostly in some sort of group-attempt to make sure Lizzie stopped crying – and Emma was half a step away from pacing again when Liam caught her around the wrist, pulling her up short. He smiled at her.

“You really wrote it?” he asked, whispering the question and it wasn’t Norwegian, but she could still barely understand him.

Emma nodded. “Only after front office agreed. Or at least that’s what Ruby told me.”  
  
“Lucas is some kind of witch. She should probably own this entire, stupid team.”  
  
“Give her a couple of years and I wouldn’t be surprised if she does.”

Liam laughed softly, tongue darting over his lower lip and he ran a hand through his hair – a move that was so, _painfully_ , Killian, Emma wondered which Jones brother had started doing it first. “You think they’re going to do it?” he asked, not quite finishing the question. He didn’t really have to.

“Yes,” Emma said simply. “They’d be idiots not to. It’d be a PR disaster at this point. Especially after everything Arthur said in LA.”  
  
“And the release you wrote.”  
  
“That too. I don’t think Gold planned on any of this. Plus it helps that he’s pretty good at this whole playing hockey thing.”  
  
“He always has been,” Liam said, glancing towards the windows like he was remembering days at the Piers or that frozen lake in the park and Emma tried not to join Mrs. Vankald in the world of openly weeping. “Always trying to prove something. To everybody. I’m glad he won’t have to anymore.”  
  
“No,” Emma whispered and she hoped it sounded like the agreement it was.

Five minutes.

“You should go down there,” Liam said suddenly.

“Where?”  
  
“Down by the boards. You should be down there when they win.”  
  
“No jinx,” Emma muttered and Liam laughed loudly, any thought of cursing in other languages forgotten as soon as the plan started to form in the back of his head.

“No jinx,” he repeated. “Go.”  
  
“But there aren’t any seats. There’s nowhere to go.”  
  
Liam didn’t seem concerned and Regina had turned away from the window to stare at the exchange, something that was almost a smile on her face. “Go, Emma,” she said, nodding towards the door. “Rol and Henry will be thrilled. They’ll probably sit in one seat so you can be down there too.”  
  
“Go,” Mary Margaret added, eyes just a bit glossy.

Emma nodded slowly, mouth hanging open just a bit as she tried to catch the breath she didn’t realize she’d lost. Liam beamed at her. “You need to be there,” he said.

“Ok, yeah, yeah,” Emma muttered. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you guys down there.”

Liam squeezed her shoulder tightly and Elsa might have winked while Anna cheered and Emma practically sprinted out the door.

No one said anything to her when she moved into the actual arena, pushing her ID badge in the face of anyone who even remotely glanced her direction and most of the crowd was standing already when Emma started pushing her way down the steps and towards the boards.

Someone noticed her, eyes going wide and, _God_ , the internet was the worst because their gaze dropped down to her wrist immediately and that was _stupid_ , but she didn’t slow down, didn’t even pause long enough to acknowledge the quiet murmur and the sound of a phone camera clicking and her head was on a swivel, trying to find a Jones jersey she recognized.

“David,” Emma shouted, resorting to yelling when she reached the end of the stairs and she hadn’t really planned this right because she was at the front of section 109, but she wasn’t on the floor and she should have gone down another flight of stairs.

She yelled again, barely able to make out a mess of brown hair and he was holding Roland, somehow managing to keep him balanced on his side while Henry jumped up and down a few feet away from her.

David turned at the sound of his own name, surprise etched on her face when he saw her. “What are you doing?” he yelled, grimacing when Roland twisted against him, likely kneeing him in the side.

Roland waved. “Hi, Emma!”

“Hey, Rol,” she called back, half hanging over the side of the barricade at the end of the stairs. She could hear feet behind her, a security guard telling her she _had to move_ and Emma didn’t even turn around, just held her badge up over her shoulder until the footsteps retreated.

“I missed a staircase,” she continued. Los Angeles pulled its goalie – a minute and a half to play. She couldn't move. If she moved, she’d miss the end of the game and this hadn’t gone according to plan at all.

She should have memorized the Garden seating chart at some point.

David laughed – somewhere between amused and manic – snapping his attention back to the game when Roland started hitting his shoulder and the Kings had the puck in the offensive zone now, Rangers first line back on the ice and there was barely any space to pass, let alone get a shot off.

Emma gripped the metal in front of her tightly until her knuckles turned white, biting her lip tightly and muttering under her breath. The fans behind her were screaming and she might have been too, but she’d lost control of most of the muscles in her body, blinking quickly and breathing even quicker, shoulders heaving like she’d only recently run a marathon.

Forty-five seconds.

It shouldn’t have been possible to hear Roland yelling again and maybe she’d only imagined it, but Emma’s jaw dropped when she heard _Go, Hook, go_ and her whole body snapped to attention when she saw him streaking up the ice.

They hadn’t just cleared the puck – Killian had a wide open lane to a wide open net and he shouldn’t still be that fast.

Adrenaline. He was running on adrenaline and forty-one seconds and the light went off as soon as the puck crossed the goal line.

She screamed, feet leaving the ground and arms thrown in the air and maybe she was crying too. She wasn’t really sure.

Killian turned back towards the boards and she could see him smile as soon as he saw Roland and Henry, banging against the glass with their signs pressed in front of them and the idea that she’d ever even considered walking away from this, that this wasn’t everything she’d always wanted, was so absurd Emma nearly started laughing in between iterations of the goal song.

“Hook,” Roland yelled, banging on the glass with both fists and Killian tried to turn back to the sound while being smothered by teammates. David nodded backwards and Henry was moving his arms like he was trying to land a plane at LaGuardia.

Killian’s head snapped up, eyes cutting through the crowd and, God, they were blue. Emma bit her lip again, teeth sinking down and she was absolutely crying.

His mouth opened slightly when he saw her – half hanging over the bannister or _whatever_ – and there were hands on his shoulder, pushing him forward until he stumbled just a bit in his skates, both of his gloves landing on the glass Roland was still banging against.

She couldn’t hear him, couldn’t quite make out what he was trying to shout at her and the crowd was still singing the goal song. They probably wouldn’t ever stop.

“I love you,” Emma said and his smile would probably be burned into her memory for the rest of her life. She hoped so.

* * *

It all kind of happened in a blur.

The puck hit his stick and there was open ice in front of him and an open net and Will was already screaming _skate, goddamnit Cap_ and he moved before he considered how much he didn’t need to, how he probably should have taken his time or _wasted_ some time and it didn’t really matter when the puck crossed the goal line and the horn went off.

There were hands everywhere and cheers and and the goal song was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in his entire life until he heard the banging on the glass in front of him, Roland shouting his name and Henry moving his arms quickly and Emma Swan was a few feet away with tear-stained cheeks and her teeth on her lip and nothing in the entire history of the _fucking universe_ had been better than that.

He must have mumbled something under his breath, some kind of stunned _what_ that left Robin and Will pushing him towards the boards and he nearly tripped over his own feet when he moved.

He couldn't hear her.

She was yelling, bent over the barricade at the end of the section with her hair over her shoulders and her shoulders moving quickly.

“I love you,” Killian yelled and she couldn’t hear him either, he knew it, but she was laughing too, hand held lightly over her face while she kept bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet. He’d probably never stop smiling.

Forty-one seconds.

“Come on, Cap,” Robin said, slinging his arm over Killian’s shoulder and dragging him back towards the bench when Arthur called timeout. He glanced over his shoulder no less than four times.

“I’m not coming off this ice,” Killian said, cutting Arthur off before he could even get a word out about line changes or shifts.

Arthur grinned. “Yeah, I figured. Don’t complain about the state of your legs this entire offseason.”  
  
“If this works, I’m not going to complain about anything ever again.”  
  
Robin won the faceoff and the Kings didn’t even try to force the forecheck, retreating back into the defensive zone and there were few things more satisfying than forcing an opposing goalie back into the game after an empty-netter.

Killian’s jaw was starting to cramp.

Will had started to count down at some point and Killian’s lungs felt tight, pulse thudding in between his ears and in between his ribs and _five, four, three, two, one_.

They’d ask him about _how he felt_ and _what he thought_ for the rest of his career, what had been going through his mind at the moment and after the moment and as soon as several bodies collided with his, legs giving out underneath him at center ice in the Garden, and Killian would never be able to come up with an answer.

At least not one that would have made any sense.

It was everything and then a bit more, the breath rushing out of him when he tried to throw his gloves and his stick in the air and his helmet got knocked off at some point, a willing casualty to celebration and a moment he’d waited his entire life for.

He’d never be able to come up with an answer because nothing would ever be enough, no combination of words or syllables would ever be able to explain any of it.

They’d won a fucking Stanley Cup.

“We did it, we did it, we did it,” Phillip shouted and Will couldn’t seem to form complete sentences, just opening and closing his mouth before laughing for several seconds straight. There was confetti and the crowd was chanting and Killian hadn’t actually moved away from center ice yet, staring up at the ceiling and only dimly aware of Robin skating by him, moving towards Henry and Roland at the other end of the ice.

They had to shake hands. They were supposed to shake hands and the Kings had retreated back to their bench and Killian still hadn’t moved an inch.  
  
“Line your guys up, Cap,” a referee said brusquely, clapping Killian on the shoulder and he nearly fell over.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said quickly, twisting his neck around and half of them were already there, a metaphor he didn’t want to even try to consider at that point.

They shook hands and the TV announcers came out onto the ice and the Garden crowd only stopped cheering long enough to boo the league commissioner. Killian chuckled under his breath, glancing at Robin who had his lips pressed together tightly to stop himself from laughing.

“You guys are immature idiots,” Will mumbled and Killian didn’t expect that, eyes widening just a bit when he noticed how often Scarlet kept blinking.

“I win the bet, Scarlet?”  
  
“No, tell Emma you want to marry her when she gets out here.”  
  
Killian laughed again, but the sound got caught in his throat when the music shifted in the arena and his head snapped around to the carpet they’d furled onto the ice – a pair of suit-wearing, glove-sporting men walking towards them, holding the Stanley Cup.

“Fuck,” Will muttered and both Killian and Robin hummed in agreement. That about summed it up.

There was a ceremony and more booing of the commissioner and Killian didn’t hear any of that either – eyes trained on the Cup and the light reflecting off of it and not a single person had left the Garden yet. Someone he’d never seen before moved behind the line of them, a bag in one hand as they pressed hats into everyone’s palms with the quiet command to _put them on_ and Killian wasted no time in tugging the stupid thing over his hair, bending the visor in between his palms.

He heard his name and there were more hands on his shoulders, pushing him towards the Stanley _fucking_ Cup and he couldn’t quite understand how he managed to stay balanced on his skates when he moved.

_Bring back Cap_ echoed in the Garden as soon as he moved away from the group and he dimly heard the team join in, Robin and Will and Phillip and Arthur, all of them shouting for him and a goddamn contract extension.

They’d won.

There were murmurs of _congratulations_ and _thanks_ and thirty-four and a half pounds had never felt lighter.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath – in through his nose and out through his mouth and all of that seemed decidedly stupid when he wanted to remember every single moment – and then he lifted it over his head.

The entire island of Manhattan probably shook from the sound on 33rd Street and he was supposed to do a lap, skating around the edge of the ice with the Cup over his head and he made it three quarters of the way around before he saw them.

They were all there – wearing jerseys, no less, and _God_ , they’d bought new jerseys – standing just outside the zamboni door in the boards with smiles on their faces and something that felt distinctly like pride rolling off each of them.

Elsa was crying, tears streaming down her face and she couldn’t wipe them away because there was a _baby_ in her arms and they’d brought Lizzie to the Garden, tiny, blue headphones over her ears. Anna kept dragging her hands across her face, leaving red streaks in her wake before giving up and just keeping her palms pressed flat against both of her cheeks.

Mr. and Mrs. Vankald each had an arm around a twin, matching looks on their faces that seemed stuck between stunned and thrilled.

Liam was half behind Elsa, a hand resting on Lizzie’s back and his eyes were red. He took a step towards the boards and it felt much longer than it was, an eternity spent waiting for him to put both palms flat on the glass. He nodded once.

“Go skate, little brother,” he said and Killian couldn’t imagine how he heard him, the same thing he’d told him when they found a patch of ice in Central Park several decades before.

He let out a shaky laugh and Elsa nodded towards the expectant team Killian knew was waiting behind him.

The crowd never stopped cheering.

And they each got a lap around the ice, Will barely pausing long enough from kissing the Cup to move around the arena, and there were pictures and they opened up the door to let their families on the ice.

“Hook,” Roland shouted, already on Robin’s shoulders with confetti stuck in his hair. “You went so fast tonight!”  
  
“Thanks mate,” Killian laughed as he brushed some of the blue and white out of his hair until it landed on Robin and Regina rolled her eyes, one arm around Henry.

“Did you see Emma?”

Killian shook his head slowly, eyes pulling away from Roland and Henry was wearing his jersey and she was walking behind the entire mini Vankald-Jones platoon that had started walking onto the ice. They’d given her a hat too and she was wearing a Stanley Cup Champions t-shirt over her dress, the same one Ruby had on a few feet behind her.

And he moved faster than he had all night to get to her.

Emma’s eyes widened when he stopped in front of her, smile moving across her face quickly and easily and she couldn’t really run across the ice, but she tried anyway, arms finding their way around his neck as soon as she reached him. He pulled her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair so he wouldn’t do something completely stupid like _actually_ propose on the ice after they won the Stanley Cup.

“Nice shot,” she muttered, fingers gripping the front of his jersey tightly.

“Which one, love?”  
  
“Still fishing for compliments, huh?”  
  
Killian pulled back, not quite able to let go of his grip on her waist as he moved one hand to tilt her hat back. She was smiling – eyes bright and just a bit red around the edges and it made his breath catch in his throat and his lungs and it made it all worth it.

“No, Swan,” he said softly. “I’m not.”  
  
She smiled even wider, pressing up on her toes when her fingers trailed along the bottom of his hair. “We won,” she whispered and he didn’t care about the cameras or the entire team or anyone else in the entire world, there was no reason Killian could come up with that would have stopped him from kissing her.

His lips found hers and her hat landed on the ice, brushed off when Killian’s hand carded through her hair and she was still on tiptoes. She hummed against him, fingers moving across his neck and the back of his jersey when his tongue found her bottom lip.

Emma laughed, not bothering to with the sound. “Easy,” she mumbled. “We’ve got company.”

“I don’t care,” Killian challenged and her laugh got even louder, the sound sinking into the muscles that were, finally, starting to ache just a bit.

“You’ve got to take pictures. There’s champagne in the locker room.”  
  
“I care about that even less.”

“Killian.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“You won, you’ve got to go celebrate. And I don’t want to scandalize, Mrs. V.”  
  
“She’s fine, she’ll come up with a cliché about it to make herself feel better.”  
  
Emma made a face, brushing her lips against his cheek and he probably should shave as soon as they got home. Well, maybe, not _as soon_ as they got home.

“You’ve got to meet Lizzie,” Emma said softly. “She looks pretty good in her Jones jersey.”  
  
“Are they all wearing my jersey?” he asked, leaning around Emma to stare at the whole lot of them, all waiting a respectable distance away. Anna was hysterical.

Emma hummed. “All of them.”

“Swan,” Killian continued, the idea striking him suddenly and with as much force as the several checks he’d taken during the game. “Did you do this?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Emma.” Her head darted up to his, lips parted slightly and she blinked twice before another tear rolled down her cheek. “Did you get them here for me?”  
  
She shrugged, but nodded at the same time and Killian’s heart might have stopped completely, stunned silent by her – again. “I knew you wanted them here,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he breathed, kissing her again before they moved back to his family and the champagne in the locker room and her hand didn’t leave his once.

* * *

The smell of champagne was going to be stuck in her nose forever, Emma was certain. There was a piece of hair stuck to her forehead and she’d lost her Stanley Cup Champions hat at some point, forgotten on Garden ice when she started kissing Killian.

Or maybe he had started kissing her.

They’d kissed each other in front of an entire arena filled with people and his family and Mary Margaret kept mumbling sentimental nonsense under her breath while Ruby cackled. She was never going to stop laughing and Emma was never going to be able to get rid of that champagne smell.

There were, she supposed, worse things.

Like waiting for these onion rings.

She was starving.

“You’re making a face, love,” Killian muttered, hands on her hips and voice in her ear when she leaned over the edge of the bar in the back corner of the restaurant.

“That’s because I’m waiting eighteen years for my food.”  
  
“Did you not get food yet?”  
  
“Did you?” Emma glanced over her shoulder to find smirking at her, one eyebrow lifted while he shrugged in response. “When?”

“In the locker room. There was food there. Did you not see that?”  
  
“I was kind of busy. Some of us still had a job to do.”

There were videos to send out and celebratory pages on the team site and the Facebook page and Instagram and post-game SnapChats were mostly filled with champagne bottles and more laughter than Emma realized could exist in a single space.

They won.

They _won_ the Stanley Cup and Killian Jones, Conn-Smythe winner and captain of the NHL champion New York Rangers, could not seem to keep his hands away from her, fingers brushing over her waist and the small of her back and he kept trailing kisses against her neck, even with his entire family sitting a few feet away.

“A fantastic job,” Killian muttered and Emma stuttered slightly when his lips found skin. “I can’t believe you did all of this, Swan.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She twisted around at the tone of his voice – something that felt a bit like wonder when he looked at her – and his hands didn’t actually leave her waist when the edge of the bar pushed into her back instead of her stomach.

Killian shook his head slowly, smile just a bit softer when he stared at the tiny bit of space between them. “You did…” He huffed out the breath he’d been holding, dragging his eyes back up to hers and, well, wonder might have been a pretty good word for all of it.

“You changed everything, Swan,” Killian said softly. “I was...I was done and you walked in and shook everything on its foundations and fixed...all of it.”  
  
Emma scoffed, blinking quickly and trying to push that whole list of _wants_ and _hopes_ and _rumors she maybe cared about a lot more than she said_ to the back of her mind. “I think you’re giving me far too much credit.”  
  
“No, I’m not. I’m not, Swan. This is...it’s everything.”  
  
She blinked again and she was giving the entire Vankald family a run for its collective money when it came to crying, but she couldn’t really bring herself to care. “If you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to punch you everywhere you’re bruised.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly – drawing the attention of, at least, three quarters of the restaurant and Emma bit her lip tightly, nose scrunched when the smile spread across her face.

“You could probably hit anywhere and you’d land on a bruise, Swan.”  
  
“Poor guy, walking wounded.”  
  
“You’re making fun, love, but you’re the one who was getting all aggressive about kissing.”  
  
“You’re the one who came over here!”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true,” Killian admitted, breathing sharply when Emma’s hips moved. “Swan…”  
  
“That was your fault, you keep pushing me into the bar.”  
  
“I was reliably informed you need onion rings.”  
  
“I said food, there was no mention of onion rings.”  
  
Killian made a face, eyebrows moving quickly and tongue tracing across his teeth when he smiled at her. “Open book,” he muttered, pausing to kiss her in between the words and she’d lost her train of thought completely.

God, they were still in the restaurant.

The goddamn Stanley Cup was resting on a table a few feet away, surrounded by security with white gloves and NHL jackets, and there was a picture on Emma’s phone of Lizzie Jones, headphones and all, sitting in the stupid thing.

And all she could think about was her boyfriend in front of her and the championship gear he had on and how quickly they might be able to get home before someone noticed they were actually trying to leave.

“What?” Killian asked and Emma got the distinct impression he knew the answer already.

She shrugged, hands on his shoulders and thumb tracing across the emblem on his t-shirt and the answer was so _obvious_ it was almost ridiculous. “I’m happy,” Emma said.

“Yeah? Me too.”  
  
“We kind of made it back to square one, here, didn’t we?”  
  
“Nah,” he objected and Emma tilted her head in confusion. “Square one wouldn’t have ended in making out against the bar.”  
  
“Are we making out against the bar?”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
Emma _giggled_ , God damn him, he’d never let her forget _that,_ tugging on his t-shirt to pull him towards her and Killian made some sort of completely unfair noise against her mouth when she moved again, hips pressed against his and fingers entrenched in his hair.

“We need to get out of here,” Killian muttered, dragging his mouth against her jaw as he tried to tug her closer to him until Emma could feel the tips of his fingers making their way under the shirt she had on over her dress.

“You are in public, Captain.”  
  
“So let’s go home, Swan.”  
  
“They’ll be mad.”  
  
“They’ll recover.”  
  
“Don’t you want to drink out of the Stanley Cup or something? And where’s your Conn-Smythe?”  
  
Killian laughed, resting his forehead against hers as he drummed his fingers against her back. “Are you worried about the status of the trophies, love?”

“You’re supposed to do those things,” she said and there wasn’t enough space to actually pull away from him without pushing against his hand or the bar and he’d probably planned it that way. Jeez.

“We did in the locker room. Drank out of the Cup and stood in front of my Conn-Smythe and then promptly gave it to Rol, who seemed more impressed with it than I was.”

“You’re not impressed with your trophy?”  
  
“I was more impressed with you standing here.”  
  
She laughed, smile wide and something fluttering in the pit of her stomach and _happy_ seemed kind of tame when it came to describing whatever it was she was actually feeling.

“Oh man, that was smooth,” she muttered.

“So, why are we not leaving yet?”  
  
“Your family is here.”  
  
“So is yours. They’ll still all be in the city tomorrow.”

Emma bit her lip tightly and he wasn’t exactly wrong – Mary Margaret shooting furtive glances their direction like she was half-planning that Swan-Jones wedding all over again. Maybe they were back to square one, just with more making out.

“We could take them to dinner,” Emma muttered. “They’re all staying at the brownstone anyway. David and Reese’s would like that.”  
  
“We’ll make Eric close here. Take them all some place else.”  
  
“You sound like you’ve got three quarters of a plan already.”  
  
“I’ve got a very strong desire to get you home, Swan. I’m willing to come up with any number of plans to ensure that can happen.”  
  
She’d probably never get tired of this, or used to it. God, if she wasn’t happier than she’d ever been, it would have been the biggest lie she’d ever told and, once, Emma told Killian Jones it was a _one time thing_ in Tarrytown.

“Let’s go,” Emma said, lacing her fingers through Killian’s and taking a step towards the door.

They nearly made it.

Nearly.

“Wait,” Regina shouted, Robin just a few feet behind her with the goddamn Conn-Smythe balanced on his hip. “Wait, wait, wait.”

“Were you just going to leave that thing here?” Emma asked incredulously and Killian mumbled something under his breath.

“What, Gina?” he asked.

“No, no, don’t give me that face,” Regina snapped, pushing her hand out towards them and Emma only then realized she was gripping her phone. “This is good. Better than good.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath and Killian squeezed her hand tightly when he realized. “That didn’t take long, did it?” she asked softly, something that felt a bit like pride shooting down to her toes.

“They’re very excited. And very certain. I’m surprised they didn’t call as soon as he hit the empty-netter.”

“When?”  
  
“Literally just now. Ownership told front office in no uncertain terms to, and I’m quoting here, _figure it the fuck out_ by the end of the week. At the latest.”  
  
“The end of the week,” Killian repeated slowly, sounding just a bit stunned. Robin readjusted the Conn-Smythe on his leg and the Vankald-Jones family had, finally, noticed their attempt to sneak out of the restaurant.

“Don’t forget to figure it the fuck out. That was my favorite part.”  
  
Killian exhaled loudly, eyes closing lightly and Emma thought she saw him lean forward just a bit, like he’d lost the ability to stay completely upright. Regina wasn’t done.

“Max, Killian,” she continued, voice picking up with excitement and _feeling_ and Emma kept glancing towards Mary Margaret. “Another five years, at least.”  
  
He shook his head slowly, pulling his lips back behind his teeth as he rocked back on his feet and Emma tried to do something, _anything_ , that was more than just grinning like some kind of lunatic who absolutely knew he deserved, at least, six years.

And a new photo on the side of the Garden.

“Take this thing with you when you leave, Cap,” Robin said, pushing the Conn-Smythe into Killian’s chest with a smile on his face.

“Dinner tomorrow?” Will shouted from the corner of the restaurant, his feet resting on one chair with Belle pulled against his side and Henry sitting across from the them. “Your treat, since you’re so goddamn rich now?”  
  
“Yeah, tomorrow. Don’t text either one of us before three in the afternoon.”  
  
“Well, that’s gross, Cap.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes and Emma shook her head, something she’d never quite been prepared for, hitting suddenly and intently and the little orphan no one wanted had stumbled into all of it – they’d won.

They slept for what felt like days – falling into the blankets on her bed and decidedly _not_ sleeping before they eventually got there, limbs twisted up together and underneath each other and a distinct lack of clothing.

He was just as bruised as he promised he was, a mess of purples and blues and marks that made Emma’s breath catch and her fingers trail over the colors until Killian promised it was _fine, love, I’m fine_ before promptly proving it.

It felt like days, but it was really only a few hours and Emma blinked blearily when she woke up the next day, most of it feeling like some sort of dream she’d come up with decades before.

It wasn’t.

There was an arm around her waist and a Conn-Smythe trophy sitting on the kitchen counter and she was already smiling again at whatever time it might have actually been.

She’d left her phone in the kitchen – far too preoccupied with getting out of championship merch as soon as the door slammed behind them and then she moved against the door and Killian would have to shave before they went to dinner because she wasn’t sure her jaw could stand up to any more of that – and Emma moved slowly when she tried to pull herself out of bed, glancing back over her shoulder when her feet hit the hardwood floors and the trail of clothes they’d left in their wake.

Emma grabbed a shirt, only realizing it wasn’t hers when it landed halfway down her thighs, and padded into the kitchen, leftover food waiting for her in the refrigerator. She grumbled slightly at the tupperware offerings and grabbed her phone off the counter instead, grabbing a mug out of the top cabinet and filling it with water before pushing it in the microwave.

There weren’t any text messages or e-mails – and Emma was almost surprised that any of them had listened to that three o’clock rule – and her thumb hovered over _The Post_ app in the bottom right-hand corner.

She clicked and clicked on sports and….found her face in the lead photo of the lead gallery, the smile on her face so wide she was half certain it wasn’t even her, the only proof, the arm slung around her shoulder and the Stanley Cup Champions hat she’d been forced into as soon as David had helped her over the section 100 barricade.

And she was so wrapped up in the picture and the look on her face and the look on his face, that Emma didn’t even notice the feet coming down the hallway or his soft scoff of frustration when he saw the phone in her hand.

“You’re breaking the rules, Swan,” Killian muttered, tugging her phone out of her hands and dumping it on the counter.

“We made _The Post_ again.” His eyes flashed and his smile faltered for half a moment, but Emma shook her head quickly, hands falling on his chest and Killian hadn’t bothered putting a shirt back on. “What did you say last night?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Last night, after you scored, you were shouting something and I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?”  
  
“You don’t know?” Killian asked, the disbelief practically hanging off the end of the words. Emma shook her head again and she didn’t move when the microwave made noise. “I love you. I said I love you.”  
  
Emma’s stomach flipped and her heart beat faster and maybe the world recentered. Or maybe she’d kind of known that was exactly what he’d said. “On the ice?”

“And in this kitchen.”  
  
“Me too,” she muttered.

“You’ve lost me, Swan.”  
  
“I was yelling too.”  
  
“And I didn’t hear you either.”  
  
“So let me finish,” she said, tapping her fingers on his shoulder blade while his hand inched back up her side.

“Go ahead, love.”  
  
She took a deep breath and it was easier to say than she expected. Of course it was. “I love you,” Emma said simply and he moved before she’d even finished the entire sentence, the words getting tangled on the tip of her tongue when Killian’s lips crashed against hers.

He’d pulled her up slightly to meet him, hands heavy on her back and her arms around his neck again and she couldn’t quite remember why she’d gotten out of bed to begin with.

“Come on, Swan,” Killian mumbled, not even bothering to put her down when he started to retreat out of the kitchen. “We’ve got hours before we have to be anywhere. We’re not wasting that.”

They didn’t and they, eventually, walked into a different restaurant downtown, fingers laced together and smiles still on their faces and no one questioned it or had bothered texting them when they showed up twenty minutes late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sports emotionsssssssssss are the best kind of emotionsssssssssss. 
> 
> I cannot possibly tell you guys how much your response to this story has been. It has made my day and week and year and, probably, several other years and if you knew my husband you could ask him how many screenshots I've sent him of the incredibly fantastic comments you all have left. We've still got a few strings to tie up and there's a very long epilogue coming on Monday, but, in the meantime, let's celebrate a Cup. 
> 
> This story would be absolutely nothing with @laurenorder. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	45. Chapter 45

It looked a bit like the ocean.

Everything was blue and white, waves upon waves of it, and more people than he’d ever seen in his entire life, hanging out of windows and off of scaffolding, dozens of them standing on cars and perched on top of phone booths Killian couldn’t quite believe were still on the sidewalks.

And, God, they were loud.

Screaming and shouting and yelling, all of them packed on top of each other, a sea of team-branded merchandise and signs with his face plastered on them.

“You look kind of stunned there, Jones,” Emma said, muttering the words against his ear as he wrapped an arm around her waist out of instinct.

“I might be,” he admitted softly, eyes tracing across the crowd when they started actually _chanting his name_ and he almost didn’t hear Emma laugh against him. Almost. “Can you believe there are still phone booths in New York City?”  
  
“That’s what you’re getting out of this?”   
  
Killian shrugged and Emma laughed louder. “I mean, maybe? It doesn’t feel quite real yet, Swan.”   
  
“They’re literally chanting your name right now. That doesn’t throw it in kind of stark reality?”   
  
“I don’t know, love, it’s been a week.” Emma smiled at him, lip tugged tightly in between her teeth when she rested her palm against the jersey he’d been forced back into. “And Scarlet filming all of it, doesn’t really help.”   
  
As if on cue, Will appeared a few feet in front of them, sprinting from the other side of the float with a phone in his hand and a grin on his face that Killian was certain hadn’t faltered since he’d kissed the Stanley Cup in the Garden locker room.

“God, Cap, are you complaining again?” Will asked, pushing the phone into Killian’s face.

“I’m not complaining,” Killian argued and Emma clicked her tongue. “What? I’m not. But you’ve got to admit, Scarlet, you’ve been taking this job pretty seriously.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s important.”   
  
“And you’re going to milk it for everything it’s worth, huh?”   
  
“Just because your girlfriend didn’t ask you to be the official documenter of our post-Cup celebration is not my fault, Cap.”   
  
“I seem to remember you volunteering, Scarlet,” Killian said, tugging Emma a bit closer to his side. The crowd got louder. “Enthusiastically.”   
  
“Whatever,” Will grumbled. He pushed the phone closer to Killian’s face, making him pull back and he wasn’t quite smiling anymore, eyebrows pulled low and lips twisted just a bit and there’d been a very good reason why _he_ hadn’t been the one to volunteer for whatever post-Cup documentation Scarlet seemed to be obsessed with.

Regina wasn’t at the parade, wasn’t on the float behind them with Henry and Roland and her own custom-made Locksley jersey. She was several dozen blocks uptown sitting in another office with front-office bigwigs and ownership and her face was probably going to freeze in _death glare_ mode because this whole thing was taking just a bit longer than it probably should have.

It should have been simple.

The Rangers wanted him, Killian wanted the Rangers – they just couldn’t seem to agree on some of the finer points of that. And Regina would be damned if she didn’t get him every dollar he deserved.

Or so she said.

He didn’t really care. He just wanted to sign a contract and get Scarlet’s phone out of his face and then he and Emma were going to discuss that island they’d been so certain they needed before.

Emma tapped her fingers on the front of his jersey, tracing over the ‘C’ on his shoulder and Will, mercifully, pulled the phone away. “Soon, Cap,” he mumbled. “I’m sure it’s going to be soon.”  
  
“It’s not like they’re not talking,” Emma reasoned, falling back on arguments and explanations she’d been repeating for the better part of the last four days. Killian’s shoulders sagged at that, some of the tension falling out of them and maybe they should just leave _now_ , buy the whole goddamn island and throw their respective phones in the _actual_ ocean, so they could have five minutes by themselves.

And then maybe he’d tell her he kept looking at apartment listings.

And he’d lost that bet.

They could put the new apartment on their new island.

The crowd cheered again and the float – or whatever it was, he wasn’t certain they’d landed on _float_ as the term for what they were standing on – stopped suddenly, the truck that was pulling them up the Canyon of Heroes shifting into park so quickly, all three of them nearly lost their balance.

“What the fuck,” Will muttered and Emma shot him a glare. “We’ll edit that out, Emma, I promise.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, you know how many things I’ve had to edit out so far? You’re more trouble than this is worth, Scarlet.”   
  
“You’re going to hurt my feelings.”   
  
“I can’t send your feelings to season-tickets.”

“That’d be weird.”  
  
Emma laughed, shaking her hair so some of the ticker-tape fell out of it, landing on her jersey  – _his jersey_ , again, but this time in front of a crowd that was probably somewhere in the tens of thousands and Killian couldn’t think about _that_ for too long or they’d end up leaping off this float and possibly swimming to whatever island they hadn’t bought yet.

“It would be weird,” she agreed as the crowd starting chanting _Let’s go Rangers_ again. “You’re missing some prime filming moments here.”   
  
Will hummed, nodding quickly and directing his phone back to the crowd, raising his other arm to try and egg him on and they still hadn’t started moving yet.

Killian glanced around again, pulling his hand up to rest on Emma’s waist, and he narrowed his eyes when he saw the flash of red in the sea of blue on either side of the block.

“Is that…” Emma started, leaning forward slightly and it absolutely was.

“If you start driving again before I get on that float, I will rip your goddamn truck in half,” Ruby shouted, jogging up the block and it wasn’t really working. The crowd just kept yelling and trying to push against the barricade and there were police officers every few feet, none of them all that interested in helping Ruby Lucas get on the float.

“Ruby what are you doing?” Emma yelled, a mix of stunned surprise and something that might have been awe in her voice.

“I am trying to get on your goddamn float, what does it look like?”  
  
“Aren’t you running press?”   
  
“Obviously,” Ruby sighed and she sounded a bit out of breath, groaning when the truck engine started to rev again. They were about to move. “God damnit, driver, what did I just say?”

“We’re kind of on a schedule, Ms. Lucas,” the guy said, leaning out of the open window to throw her an apologetic look. She glared in response.

“Jeez,” Killian mumbled. “Ruby stay there.”

He kissed the top of Emma’s head before he moved, ignoring Will’s quiet _ah, shit, we didn’t get that on camera_ , and swung his legs over the side of the float. The crowd roared and he blinked once when they started cheering again, leaning over the sides of barricades and in between officers to try and get him to sign something or high-five something and Ruby was jogging towards him again.

“You’re breaking all the rules, Cap,” she laughed, smile tugging on the ends of her mouth as soon as his hand found hers, pulling her through the crowd that had been following their float for the last few blocks. There were more camera snaps and reporters shouting questions and none of the words they were saying made much sense.

They weren’t about winning or the crowd or even what the hell he was doing, pushing Ruby back towards the float and Will’s outstretched arms so they could get her up without either one of them dislocating anything.

They were shouting _is it true, Cap_ and _when will you sign_ and _eight years sounds like the rest of your career_ and he only half heard any of it, pulling himself back onto the float to find Ruby staring at him like he’d committed several different felonies at once.

Ruby glared at him for half a moment more, but the ends of her lips were still quirked up and she was fighting off a smile. “Ok,” she said, stalking back towards the truck in front of them. “You can start moving again.”  
  
The driver didn’t say anything and Killian had been fairly positive Ruby wasn’t in charge of when the parade started or stopped, but his certainty wasn’t quite as strong when she turned back on him. “I have news,” she announced, glancing back down at her phone when it vibrated in her hand. “And, jeez, like sixty different outlets that want to talk to you, Cap.”   
  
“What?” Killian asked as what might have been an actual pound of ticker tape landed on his feet.

“Killian,” Emma muttered and his head snapped back around at the tone of her voice. She didn’t look up when he moved, eyes wide and focused on her phone, but her mouth was hanging open just a bit and something in his stomach seemed to shift at the look on her face.

Will muttered _oh, shit, they did it_ under his breath and Killian couldn’t really breathe – the sounds of the crowd echoing in his ears as he took a step towards Emma. She bit her lip when the tips of his shoes nearly hit her flats, eyes pulling up slowly and she just nodded.

“So,” Ruby said pointedly. “You guys want the good news or, like, the _exceptional_ news first?”   
  
“There’s more than one form of good news here?” Emma asked, shifting slightly so she was back on Killian’s side and her hand found his with practiced ease. He squeezed her fingers.

“Good and then exceptional.”  
  
“Go in order of goodness then.”   
  
Ruby grinned, but her head tilted as soon as she seemed to realize something. “Shouldn’t you be there?” she asked, glancing at Killian. “I mean, it is your life, right? You should be in on negotiations or whatever?”   
  
“Probably,” Killian shrugged. “But I trust Gina and whatever stare down she’s, apparently, excelling at.”   
  
“And he didn’t want to miss the parade,” Will added knowingly, pushing his phone back into the middle of all of them.

“That too.”  
  
Ruby made a face and she was still trying not to laugh. “Ah, well, then you’re going to want to make sure you get this on video, Scarlet. And if any of you swear, I’m going to push you off the side of the float. Tell him, Emma.”   
  
Emma took a deep breath, lip still in between her teeth as she pushed her phone into his hands. “Regina did a good job,” she said softly.

He didn’t look immediately.

He couldn’t really do it, was far too aware of Emma in front of him and Scarlet’s phone and the crowd was _deafening_ now, chanting something that might have been his name and _welcome back_. Twitter, it seemed, had updated the world before he’d even gotten to see the numbers.

They’d used his name as a pun again.

**Cap’ing off the season: Jones set to sign extension, return to Rangers**

Killian didn’t really read it. He couldn’t seem to settle on a single word, eyes tracing across sentences and paragraphs, looking for some kind of actual confirmation that didn’t include the word _report_ in it.

It came three paragraphs from the bottom.

 _Sources confirm that Jones is set to sign an eight-year extension with the Blueshirts, a deal that won’t just pad his wallet, but will keep him in New York, likely, for the rest of his career_.

The rest of his career.

Eight years.

And while they might not be able to buy an island – or a mountain range – with the number of zeroes that were, reportedly, being offered to him, it’d be enough to pay for a moving service to get an obscene amount of pillows into a brand-new apartment.

He couldn't ask Emma to move in the middle of Broadway.

Soon.

He hadn’t been back to his own apartment since they’d won. There was probably several feet of dust on the floor.

“Cap,” a voice shouted from another float and Killian barely gave himself time to consider how he’d managed to hear Robin behind him before he was moving towards the sound.

Robin waved one arm over his head and Killian shrugged at the movement, smile instinctual as soon as he saw Roland perched on the top rung of the barricade, Henry next to him in head-to-toe team merch.

“Where is your phone?” Robin continued, staring at Killian as if he were about to jump from float to float and possibly shake some sense to him.

“What?”

“Your phone! Gina’s been trying to call you for twenty minutes!”  
  
“Oh, that’s good,” Ruby muttered, lips tilted down slightly with how impressed she was. “She did it before they even got it up on the web.”

“I didn’t bring my phone,” Killian yelled back.

Robin looked insulted. “What? Why? God, don’t tell Gina that, she’s going to kill you!”  
  
“I didn’t think I’d need it.”   
  
“She’s been in meetings all morning, you didn’t think you’d need it?”   
  
“No jinx or something.”   
  
“It’s a lot of zeroes, Hook,” Roland screamed and Henry nodded enthusiastically.

“More than whatever’s in that article,” Robin added, leaning over the side of the float so Killian could actually hear him.

“Did we send out a release yet?” Emma asked, her own phone already out and a determined look on her face when she started typing something. “Will are you getting this? This should be in the video.”  
  
Will nodded quickly, phone half an inch away from Killian’s still-stunned face. No one had actually said _it_ yet and the world still felt like it was shaking just a bit.

That might have just been because of the crowd.

 _Eight years_.

The rest of his career. On the side of the goddamn Garden.

“You’re not actually in charge of PR, Em,” Ruby laughed softly and Emma made a noise that wasn’t quite an agreement.

Killian forgot Robin for a moment, head snapping towards her and the grimace she was making.  “Swan?”

“Still here,” she said, not taking her eyes away from her phone.

“What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Really, there’s not.” She glanced up at him, eyes bright and meaningful and it made his breath catch in his throat all over again. A two-bedroom apartment. They’d get a two-bedroom and a new mattress and something with a lot of light and windows and maybe they’d move closer to the park and the water.

“There’s not,” Emma repeated again, knocking Killian out of whatever kind of future he’d been planning. “At least not anymore.”  
  
“Anymore?” he asked and she shrugged.

“There was some talk,” she said slowly, “that the PR spot was going to open up because Mal was going to the league and maybe Zelena had mentioned that they wanted to move me over since I have all that experience, but….”  
  
“But?”   
  
“I kind of like community relations.”

She shrugged again and, yes, two bedrooms, at least, and a view of the river and and a cabinet full of cinnamon so she’d never be worried there wasn’t enough and her there every morning and probably for the rest of his life.

And he was the luckiest bastard in the entire _fucking_ world.

“I love you,” Killian said, the words so obvious, he was surprised he hadn’t just been muttering them in her ear on loop since he’d lifted the Stanley Cup over his head. “More than anything.”

He could feel her smile when she kissed him, one hand in his hair and the other tugging on the laces of his jersey and Killian was only slightly aware of the still-yelling crowd and a still-yelling Robin and Emma’s phone was ringing, pressing up against the front of him while she tried to pull him closer to him.

“Turn the camera off, Scarlet,” Ruby muttered.

Will scoffed. Killian didn’t stop kissing Emma. Or maybe vice versa. Maybe they should just buy a house on the Island. Maybe he _should_ have proposed on the ice.

“I mean it, Will, turn it off,” Ruby continued, a quiet scuffle breaking out a few feet away when she, presumably, just grabbed the thing out of his hands. “Go yell back at Rol and Henry. Throw some ticker tape at them or something.”  
  
“I’m not just going to start throwing ticker tape, Lucas.”   
  
Ruby might have actually _hissed_ or _growled_ or something vaguely intimidating and Will stopped arguing immediately, practically hurling himself towards the ground to pick up a handful of ticker tape and throw it towards the float and the kids behind them and Killian didn’t really notice any of it – he couldn’t, not when he was far to preoccupied on maintaining some sense of control in front of fans and cameras while his mind raced towards a future he could finally, _finally_ , start living.

With Emma.

A future with Emma.

“I love you too,” she mumbled against his mouth, groaning slightly when her phone stopped ringing, only to start again almost immediately.

“It’s probably Regina,” Ruby said, ducking her eyes slightly when neither Killian nor Emma showed any inclination towards not kissing in the middle of a parade. “Also, did you want the semi-good news or nah?”  
Killian laughed, glancing towards Ruby who was beaming at both of them. “What’s the semi-good news, Lucas?”

“Oh, I totally got Neal fired,” she said without preamble and Emma nearly dropped her phone, spininng to gape at Ruby.

“What?”

“Totally,” Ruby smiled, widening her eyes with a surge of pride.

“How?”

“I know some people in the league. And they were very, very interested in a PR director serving as an anonymous source.”  
  
Emma made a noise in the back of her throat. “And they just believed you? It’s not like his name was anywhere in those stories.”   
  
“No,” Ruby said, still smiling. “But Gold was. And, from what I’d heard before, Gold wasn’t very pleased with the way all of this shaped out. No Cup, no destroyed career for Cap, nothing. Rumor had it he was going to clean house again and Neal was pretty much on the doorstep anyway. I think he thought if he just told the league the truth, they’d give him his old job. Bygones or whatever.”   
  
“Did they?”   
  
“Nope. Kicked to the curb from the doorstep without so much as a second glance.”   
  
“You’re a fountain of cliches right now aren’t you?”

Ruby shrugged. “I hung out with Mrs. V at the restaurant for awhile, guess some stuff stuck.”

The phone rang again and then vibrated against his chest and Regina had started leaving voicemails now. “She’ll kill you if you don’t call back,” Emma chuckled softly. “Let’s avoid that if we can.”  
He groaned, but she was right and he was half surprised that Regina hadn’t also found her way to Broadway and through the ocean of blue jerseys if only to yell at him about _answering your phone_ when there was an extension a signature away.

Emma pressed her phone into his palm, smiling softly when he hit the number that had already called four times in a row and left two voicemails.

It barely rang once before she answered.

“Are you kidding me, Jones?” Regina screeched and Killian winced at the sound.

“Jeez, Gina.”  
  
“Where is your phone?”   
  
“I found a phone.”   
  
“That didn’t answer my question, Jones.”   
  
“What the hell is that? You’ve never called me Jones in my life.”   
  
“That’s because I’ve never been this mad at you in my life! Where?”   
  
“At home.”   
  
“Home,” Regina repeated, the skepticism obvious in her voice. “You mean Emma’s apartment.”   
  
“Home, Gina,” Killian said sharply.

Regina sighed with all the drama of someone who’d missed out on a Stanley Cup parade and then been ignored for the better part of the last twenty minutes. “They want you up here,” she said and her voice wasn’t quite as hard as it had been. “Once you do City Hall and the photos. They want to make it official. Today. And tell Lucas you’re not talking until you actually sign something. They’ll lose their minds up here if you do.”  
  
He squeezed his closed again, trying to to will the moment in the darkest corners of his memory and his brain and whatever he’d think about when he needed to be happy – God, he was happy. “Ruby knows the rules, Gina,” Killian said.

“Even so.”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Four o’clock, Killian. Don’t take the Subway.”   
  
“Aye, aye your majesty.”   
  
“Ass,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “And congratulations.”

It was quieter than it had been all day – hours after the parade and City Hall and fans chanting _welcome back_ when he got the goddam _key to the fucking city_ like he was some kind of superhero. Killian’s hand hadn’t shook when he signed, pen held firmly in his hand when he scribbled across a sheet of paper that would change his whole life.

Again.

This sport and this city and everything he’d done, consolidated into a few paragraphs and subparagraphs and Regina hovered over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t miss a single line or spot to initial.

It had been everything he’d suddenly realized he couldn’t live without and, now, hours after all of it – phone calls answered and text messages returned and Elsa had screamed so loudly when he’d picked up that she’d woken up Lizzie and he had to shout the specifics of the contract in between cries – but now it was quiet and it all kind of hit him...at once.

“You look like you’re trying to plan every hour of the next eight years,” Emma said, leaning up against the doorframe with her arms crossed lightly over team-merch and a small smile on her mouth.

“Not every hour,” Killian countered. “Just some of them.”  
  
“Eight years. That’s a long time.”   
  
“It is.” The bed dipped slightly when she sat down, swinging her legs onto the mattress and pressing her back up against the wall. She twisted her hair around a finger, pulling her leg up to rest on her chin on her knee. “What, Swan?”   
  
“I’m just...this is good. It worked...”   
  
She glanced at him, eyes just a bit cautious, like she was waiting for that other shoe or whatever cliche made sense in a moment like this and he knew, more than he’d known just about anything, that it wouldn’t come.

“It did,” Killian said, tracing his thumb down the front of her leg and her tongue darted out in between her lips, breath hitching just a bit. He moved his arm, pulling Emma back down towards him and against his chest and he fell asleep with hair in his face and her arm pressed against a bruise that still hadn’t quite healed, visions of the future dancing just behind his eyelids.

* * *

She absolutely, positively, was not crying.

And had not cried once. At all. Never. Emma didn’t cry. She didn’t do _emotions_ – or hadn’t, not until this stupid team and this stupid city and the last two weeks had been a whirlwind of everything, every emotion she could name or feel, balling up into one, massive _thing_ that just seemed to send shockwaves of feeling through every single of inch of her consistently and without warning.

She was definitely crying.

It was, Emma reasoned, because Mary Margaret looked like some kind of actual princess, a picture of happiness with a smile on her face that hadn’t wavered once all day, even when NY1 tried to tell them it was going to rain.

It didn’t.

Emma was half convinced Mary Margaret had willed it not to.

“Are you crying?” David asked, nearly falling into a chair in the corner of the restaurant. He’d taken of his tie somewhere in between the ceremony and the photos, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up his forearms as he stared at Emma like he was trying to read her mind.

“Nah,” Emma muttered, brushing under her eyes quickly to get rid of the evidence David had absolutely already seen.

“She’s been crying all day,” Mary Margaret laughed, hand landing on David’s shoulder when she walked towards the table and Emma’s jaw dropped open.   
  
“Whatever, Reese’s. I take back every compliment I’ve given you today.”   
  
“That’s not how it works. I’m hoarding them all. Cherishing them, even.”   
  
“Is that weird?”   
  
Mary Margaret shook her head, lips pressed together as she tried not to smile. Or start crying. The three of them were a mess. “Of course not. My day or whatever.”   
  
“Or whatever,” Emma agreed and her throat felt tight and her eyes felt misty and she was totally going to start crying again.

“Are we having a moment?” David asked. “Is that what’s happening right now?”

“Can we have more moments? I feel like we should have run out of them by now.”  
  
Mary Margaret clicked her tongue and Emma was momentarily impressed by her ability to roll her eyes while she was still smiling. “The idea that there is some sort of limit on the number of moments we can have is absurd.”   
  
“You know, Reese’s,” Emma laughed, shooting a glance David’s direction. He bit his lip. “That was almost, _almost_ , decidedly snippy.”   
  
“Almost,” David assured her when Mary Margaret made some kind of noise in the back of her throat. “Not quite, babe.”   
Emma shook her head. “Oh, God, they’ve started the nickname thing. Time to retreat.”   
  
“Rude.”   
  
“True. I’m surprised you guys are even still here. I thought you were just going to start attacking each other in the middle of the aisle.”   
  
“There wasn’t an aisle, Emma.”

She couldn’t even argue that – there hadn’t been, not really. There had been a line of flowers and a violin and Emma had cried then too, tears falling down her cheeks without her permission as soon as Mary Margaret appeared at the top of the steps in front of the castle.

They got married at a castle.

Like a fairy tale.

And Emma’s dress was blue and Ruby had complained a bit more than she probably should have, but David’s jaw actually _dropped_ when he saw Mary Margaret and she’d needed to bite her lip so she didn’t just _dissolve_ into feelings right there.

“And,” Mary Margaret muttered knowingly, a very specific type of look on her face when she leaned towards Emma. “We’re not the only ones making eyes at each other all night.”

David practically cackled, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut and Emma groaned, but she couldn't really argue that either.

She’d spent all of two seconds staring at David and Mary Margaret before her gaze drifted a bit to her side and Killian was sitting three rows back, Roland half on his knee and half on his own seat – he didn’t look away from her once, something just on the edge of his gaze that made Emma’s knees go weak and, well, maybe _that_ was what she’d dissolve over.

It really wasn’t fair.

She should probably tell him that at some point, mumble the words in his ear and tug a bit on that ridiculously blue tie and she’d seen him in suits plenty of times, had seen him in blue more times than she could count, and none of it really mattered.

He still looked better than the best adjective she could come up with and Emma found herself staring at Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, while Mary Margaret and David kissed a few feet behind her at the end of what wasn’t actually an aisle.

And he told her she looked beautiful as soon as she found him, her thumb tracing over a scar on the back of his left hand when his fingers tugged on hers, pulling her away from the crowd and the team and anything that wasn’t another decidedly _emotional_ moment.

They might have scandalized the cab driver on the ride from the park to the restaurant.

“I don’t make eyes,” Emma mumbled and David was probably going to laugh at her for the rest of her life. “God, David, if this was a moment, you’ve absolutely ruined it.”  
  
He made a face, reaching his hand forward to rest on her knee and the light seemed to reflect off his ring.

Emma was far too emotional for her own good.

A waiter she’d never seen before in the restaurant appeared next to them as if he’d teleported there, a tray in their hands and an offer of food on his lips and Emma sat up a bit straighter, moving her finger through the air as she counted.

A round dozen.

“What?” David asked, eyebrows drawn low as he twisted his head between Mary Margaret and Emma.

“Don’t do it, Emma,” Mary Margaret warned. “I don’t want to hear it. I wanted all that food and we will eat all that food. And people will love it.”

Emma laughed loudly, her whole body shaking with the feel of it until it seemed to sink down into her toes and her fingers and she was so _goddamn_ happy, it was somewhere close to ecstatic. Maybe she should find her boyfriend.

“You going to force me to take home food from your wedding too, Reese’s?” Emma asked. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”  
  
Mary Margaret sagged forward slightly and Emma’s happiness ebbed just a bit, forcing her out of her chair and around David and if she wasn’t a crier, then she certainly wasn’t a _hugger_ , but none of that seemed to matter.

She wrapped her arms around Mary Margaret, careful not to actually get anything caught on the dress and there were more tears and David laughed when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of them.

“It’s absolutely a moment,” David said and his eyes were just a bit glossy too.

Emma scoffed, wiping the back of her hands across her cheeks as she did her best to salvage the ridiculous amount of makeup she was wearing. “How come you guys aren’t dancing? Shouldn’t you be all wrapped up in each other or something?”  
  
“We wanted to eat before we danced,” Mary Margaret explained.

“Well, when you’ve got so many appetizers to try….”  
  
Mary Margaret scowled at her, but it didn’t really hold much weight when she was still trying to hug Emma. The music changed, slower and more romantic than it had been before and the small crowd that had been dancing shifted automatically, arms around necks and hands on hips and Emma would have to ask Mrs. Vankald for a specific type of cliche in this moment.

“Well, that seems like our cue,” David said, tugging lightly on Mary Margaret’s arms until they moved away from Emma.

Mary Margaret beamed at him, taking a few steps towards the makeshift dance floor Ariel had helped set up the day before. She glanced back at Emma and it wasn’t quite like any look she’d ever had before – a mix of happiness and content and something just on the edge that Emma couldn’t quite name.

“Eat some food,” Mary Margaret said, reaching forward to squeeze Emma’s hand, her thumb brushing just over her wrist.

Emma nodded slowly. If she cried anymore she’d absolutely mess up her makeup. “Sure thing, Mom.”  
  
They were half a second away from another moment, but the music was still playing and someone was shouting for David and Mary Margaret to dance and probably kiss, the echo of silverware on glass sounding a bit louder than it probably should have in that absurdly crowded restaurant.

And for a wedding that was, decidedly, not Rangers-themed, there were a lot of New York Rangers at that wedding.

Will and Belle were dancing and Ariel kept taking pictures, shouting the word _girlfriend_ at both of them every few moments. Ruby seemed intent on dealing with the blue of her dress by doing shots at the bar, camped out on the corner stool with Dorothy by her side and Jefferson behind her, none of them able to sit quite straight.

Regina had smiled more in the last three hours than Emma had seen all season, tugging Roland and Henry onto the dancefloor with her and Robin until they made some sort of family square that couldn’t quite move perfectly to the music, but kept laughing when one of them would trip over their own feet.

And for as much as Emma had cried throughout the day, Ruth seemed determined to give her a run for her money, eyes just a bit redder than normal.

It was perfect.

“Seems a shame to waste the music, doesn’t it, Swan?”

Emma glanced up, something that might have been a giggle or just _joy_ falling into the space between them. He’d been on the other side of the restaurant for all of ten minutes and she’d already forgotten how good he looked in that stupid suit.

It absolutely was not fair.

“You’re staring, love,” Killian murmured, smirk tugging on the ends of his lips as he held his hand out in front of her. She took it immediately, hardly even noticing when he started walking again, pushing through the small crowd in front of them.

“Yeah, well,” Emma said and it sounded like she _sighed_ out the words when he moved his hand to her hip. “Your suit is dumb.”

“Dumb?”

“The absolute dumbest.”  
  
“I think you like this suit, Swan.”   
  
“I think you like my dress.”   
  
“I’m not arguing that.”   
  
They’d actually started dancing at some point and whoever was in charge of the music was either a villain or a genius or maybe a bit of both, because one song blended into another and the rhythm didn’t change as all, just as slow as ever with just as much _meaning_ behind all of it.

“What are we doing right now?” Emma asked, leaning back slightly to stare at him. That was a mistake. His eyes matched his tie and her dress and everything was almost oppressively blue. She heard Ariel’s camera shutter sound.

Killian quirked one eyebrow, the smirk as stupid as his suit and whatever was going on with his hair – pushed up in the back and twisted just bit in the front and both of those things were absolutely Emma’s fault.

“We’re dancing, Swan, obviously,” Killian said, squeezing his hand a bit tighter on her hip as if that, somehow, proved his point.

“No, no, I get that, but how?”  
  
“How?”   
  
“How do you know how to dance?” Emma pressed. “This is good. You’re good at this.” Killian didn’t answer immediately, the other eyebrow joining the first up his forehead and Emma groaned loudly. “God,” she sighed. “Why are you good at everything?”   
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”   
  
“It wasn’t.”   
  
Killian laughed, brushing his lips across hers quickly and Ariel was definitely still taking pictures. “It’s like skating,” he said. “You find a rhythm and you stick with it. Simple.”   
  
“I don’t know about that.”   
  
“You’re doing fine, Swan.”   
  
“Gee, thanks”   
  
He moved again, pulling her flush against his chest and, while she’d absolutely never admit it, it did feel a bit like skating – gliding, _jeez_ , in a tiny circle and she couldn’t quite understand how she could feel grounded and dizzy at the same time.

She’d blame the suit.

“I’m not mocking you, love,” Killian said and there was an earnest edge to his voice that Emma didn’t entirely expect. “In fact, what I’m trying to say is that you appear to be a natural.” He twisted her away from him and, for half a moment, Emma considered complaining about _that_ , but Killian barely gave her a chance to even finish the thought, pulling her back and kissing her forehead and she couldn’t talk when she could hardly even breathe.

“After all,” he added. “There’s really only one rule to all of this.”  
  
“That so?”

He nodded slowly, Emma’s stomach flipping at the movement or maybe how much they were swaying and she bit her lip when he spoke again. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

There was a retort on the tip of her tongue – something slightly snarky that would probably make him smirk at her and then maybe kiss her again and it didn’t really matter as long as he didn’t move his hands – but she never got a chance, interrupted by a shout and Will Scarlet skidding to a stop next to them.

“Emma,” he yelled, backing up slightly when Killian turned to glare at him. “Jeez, Cap, relax.”  
  
“What, Scarlet,” Emma sighed.

“I want to talk to you.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that. Talk.”   
  
Will glanced at Killian, still glaring daggers at him, but it didn’t seem to worry him. If anything, he simply looked more determined to talk. “What,” Emma repeated.

“You’ve got to lay down the law on the last round of the bet.”  
Killian stiffened next to Emma, his hand going dangerously tight on her waist. “Shut up, Scarlet,” he hissed.

Will didn’t move, just looked a bit more entrenched in front of them, crossing his arms over his button-up and staring at Killian expectantly. “Fair’s fair, Cap. You lost. It’s time to pay up.”  
  
“I’m serious, Scarlet.”   
  
“Me too.”   
  
Killian huffed, teeth digging into his lip and he looked like he wanted to check Will into the boards. Or maybe the bar. Emma took a step in between them, keeping one hand trained on Killian’s chest when she looked questioningly at Will.

“What are you talking about, Scarlet? I didn’t think you guys bet in the last game.”  
  
“Cap,” Will yelled. “You didn’t even tell her?”   
  
Killian didn’t answer, just pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and he’d probably need offseason PT if he kept holding his shoulders that straight. “Fine, Scarlet,” Emma sighed. “I’ll bite. I take it you won, then?”   
  
“Obviously.”

“What were the stakes?”  
  
“Well, Cap wouldn’t let us bet on A’s kid…”   
  
“You wanted to bet on an unborn baby?”   
  
“You and Cap spend way too much time together, that’s exactly what he said.”

Emma rolled her eyes. Killian hadn’t breathed in hours – at least. “What did you win, Scarlet?” she continued impatiently and Will actually had the gall to grin at her.

“The better question, Emma, is what did you win?”

She made a face, pulling her head back in confusion and glancing at Killian quickly. He looked like he’d already come up with several different ways to kill Will and make it look like an accident.

“You're not making any sense,” Emma said.

Will clicked his tongue, grin widening as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Cap’s got to sell his apartment.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Those were the stakes. If he lost, and he definitely lost, then he’s got to sell his apartment and tell you how he’s been looking up apartment listings since the week before we actually won the Cup and then he’ll probably say something stupid romantic too. I don’t care about that last part.”   
  
Emma turned before Will had even stopped talking, spinning on a visibly nervous Killian who couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. “Is that true?” she asked, voice softer than she wanted it to be.

“No, no,” Killian said quickly, ignoring Will’s pointed groan. “Well, not all of it at least. I wasn’t looking up apartments a week before the Cup.”  
  
“No?”   
  
“Nah, not until, like, a couple days before. At the earliest.”   
  
She wasn’t sure what she expected. It hadn’t been that. It probably should have. And they probably should have talked about this weeks before because she couldn’t remember the last time Killian hadn’t slept in her apartment or the last time she’d thought of her apartment as exclusively hers.

God, she wanted that.

She wanted _all_ of that – every single emotion that had a name and then, maybe, an absurd amount of decorative pillows.

“Where?” she asked, well aware that it wasn’t nearly specific enough. There needed to be more words, more questions and, maybe, more kissing and she needed Will Scarlet to move, at least, six feet away from them.

“What?” Killian whispered.

“Where? Like where in the city were you looking?”  
  
He opened his mouth and closed it and then did it two more times before the air rushed out of him loudly and his shoulders visibly sagged, blinking quickly at Emma like he was a bit stunned to still find her standing there.

“Um, still uptown,” Killian said slowly. “Just maybe kind of farther up. By the park. Or something. It wasn’t very specific.”  
  
“That’d be nice.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
She licked her lips before she answered, the certainty that this might have been the most important conversation she’d ever had settling over her. Will still hadn’t moved and Emma knew Mary Margaret was watching a few feet away, could feel her curious stare boring into the back of her head like some kind of proud mother.

“Yeah,” Emma said, nodding once for good measure. “I mean, we’ve kind of been doing it already, right? When’s the last time you went home?”  
  
“Last night,” Killian answered immediately.

“What?”  
  
“I went home with you, Swan, last night. And every night for, what, the last two months?”   
  
Her heart exploded – or something equally impossible and it might have landed on the floor, which only seemed appropriate, since she hadn’t wanted to come to very first party in the restaurant uptown.

_Until I met you._

“Something like that,” Emma mumbled. Killian beamed at her.

“God,” Ariel cried a few feet away, her phone still in her hand and Eric hovering nearby when she tried to actually climb on a chair so she could see both of them better. “Kiss her already!”  
  
She was never sure who moved first – him or her or maybe they didn’t really move at all, just kind of fell into each other, like they had from the very start.

And it didn’t take nearly as long as she thought it would have, or probably _should_ have, Killian’s apartment selling quickly and easily and Emma refused to question it, certain she’d, somehow, managed to jinx all of it.

They moved into the apartment in August, just a few weeks before camp was set to get underway and a few days after they’d come back from Colorado, days spent in a backyard and something Liam kept referring to as _mountain air_ and Killian had kept his arm trained around her shoulder when they left, the twins clinging to his legs while they tried to get in the car.

She’d thought that had been perfect.

This was, somehow, even better.

It was _theirs_ in a way that nothing had quite been and they signed the paperwork together, hauling boxes in and there was another security guard in the lobby, nodding towards them with a quiet _Mr. Jones_ and _Ms. Swan_ when they brought another load of stuff into the elevator.

The entire contingent had been called on to help and, for the most part, they had – Robin and Will bringing in furniture with only a minimal amount of grumbling, while a starting-to-show Ariel followed behind with shouts to _be careful_ and _don’t strain anything_. Mary Margaret had taken it upon herself to start putting away towels and organize the kitchen and she’d bought them a new set of tupperware.

David piled boxes in the hallway and they had a _hallway_ and two bedrooms and a view of the river. The Hudson River. It was the Hudson. Emma had told Killian that when they looked at the apartment the first time.

Finding the apartment was easy – moving into the apartment took all day and left them with boxes and a Conn-Smythe in the corner of the hallway. The Hart Trophy Killian had won just before they went to Colorado was sitting on top of the oven.

It was an unequivocal domestic disaster.

It was perfect.

Emma had no idea what time it was when everyone left – Mary Margaret promising to bring food and leaving cookies before being pulled out the door by David, a knowing smile on his face – but it must have been late, the whole apartment quiet when she leaned against the wall behind the bed.

“You alright, Swan?” Killian asked, appearing in the doorway in a University of Minnesota t-shirt that left Emma somewhere in the realm of decidedly wooed.

“Better,” she promised. “Your Hart is sitting on the oven, you know.”  
  
“I think it looks good there.”   
  
“You want to keep a giant trophy on the oven? Where’s the Conn-Smythe?”

Killian shrugged, taking a step into the room and dropping down on the edge of the bed. They’d bought a new mattress.

 _God_.

“Why not? Our apartment, we can do whatever we want, right? Maybe we should buy a trophy case to put in the kitchen, though. Just to make sure it’s organized.”

“Are you suggesting, Cap, that you’re going to win more massive trophies to put in our kitchen?”  
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Confident.”   
  
“Nah, Swan,” he laughed. “Just consistently trying to impress you.”   
  
“I’m going to be honest, the Stanley Cup kind of helped.”

He laughed again, twisting back towards her until his legs stretched out over the blankets Mary Margaret had absolutely put on the bed earlier that afternoon. “Speaking of which,” Killian muttered, tugging something out of his pocket. “You know, we never did replace your laces.”  
  
“We have been kind of busy.”

“Seems like a pretty poor excuse.”  
  
“Maybe I’ll steal them out of the jersey I bought.”   
  
Killian made a noise, shaking his head quickly and Emma didn’t even try to move. “Actually,” he muttered. “I had kind of a different idea.”

She couldn’t really breathe, eyes going wide and mouth going dry when Killian flipped his wrist, holding his hand up towards her. “Calm down, Swan,” he laughed when she made some kind of impossible noise. “I’m not proposing.”

It was a ring.

It was _his_ ring.

And it wasn’t as ostentatious as it probably could have been – not enormous or covered in diamonds, just a blue stone in the middle with the Rangers shield on the side, his initials and numbers etched inside the band.

“There’s supposed to be a ceremony,” Killian continued, voice scratchy and Emma couldn’t pull her eyes away from the ring. “We’re supposed to all get dressed up and you’d probably be able to auction off tickets for fans and it’ll still happen once we get closer to the season, but I, uh, I knew they came in earlier this week and, well, I wanted you to have it.”  
  
She needed oxygen. She needed to breathe. She couldn’t seem to do that, frozen solid in the middle of a brand-new bed in her _home_ and Killian kept his hand open in front of her.

Emma reached her fingers out slowly, brushing against the ring and Killian’s palm and he flinched slightly underneath her.

“I can’t take that,” she said softly. “You don’t...you won, Killian. You should keep it.”  
  
“I want you to have it, Swan,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. There’d be no Cup, no trophies on the oven, none of this. This is yours just as much as it’s mine. And, if nothing else, it’s a reminder that you’ve got a piercing-eyed, smoldering, Stanley Cup-winning hockey player who loves you.”   
  
“Had to add in that last part, huh?”   
  
“It’s true.”   
  
“Yeah, it is,” Emma agreed, shaking with her laughter. “And I love you too.”

He’d put it on a chain, muttering something about how it was _indestructible, so it won’t break when you start tugging on it_ , and Emma ignored that, kissing him silent until he dropped the ring in between them.

It was heavy when she finally hung it over her neck, twisting slightly so the _indestructible_ chain wouldn’t get stuck in her hair and Killian’s eyes widened when it hit against the front of her shirt – team-branded and blue and probably not quite _perfect_ for whatever kind of moment they were having.

“I like it,” he mumbled, thumb tracing over her collarbone and across the front of her shirt and Emma forgot all the reasons she’d been exhausted just a few minutes before.

They moved slowly, like they were trying to memorize each other all over again, a new memory for a new space and a new start and Emma didn’t notice the pillow under her head until hours later, somewhere in the realm of the middle of the night, tugging it out with bleary eyes.

“What is that?” Killian asked, kissing along her temple when he pulled her against his chest and Emma hummed in response.

“The one thing I unpacked,” she answered and there was a sense of wonder in his stare that seemed to settle in Emma’s ribcage.

Killian smiled at her, slow and lazy and _comfortable_ and he chuckled softly when her fingers found the ring around her neck, twisting the band around her thumb. She’d done it almost as soon as the first box came into the apartment, pulling the pillow out and putting it in the middle of the bed, letting her fingers trail across the blue edges and the Rangers emblem stitched across the front.

He stared at her for another moment and Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth waiting for him to say something, anything.

She was glad she did.

“Welcome home, Swan,” Killian whispered, ducking his head to kiss her once more and they didn’t ever get much sleep, but it didn’t really matter.

She’d found her way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. my. God. 
> 
> I am...I don't even know what I am. Sad and excited and thrilled and just generally overwhelmed because the response to this story is more than I could have ever hoped for when I first started slamming on keys. 
> 
> I cannot thank you guys enough for every single, click comment and kudos. It has meant the actual world to me. There is a finished sequel lurking on my Google docs set to be posted at the end of January and I've got a questionable amount of Christmas fic coming and I just can't stop writing. 
> 
> Blue Line would have been nothing without @laurenorder who fixed every single word. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


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